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(■.(Hi«***«**'*'!*‘ *5 





A ]sr O V E L. 








BY MRS.^HENKY WOOD. 

AUTHOR OF “EAST LYNNE,” “GEORGE CANTERBURY’S WILL,” “THE RED COURT FARM,” 
“DENE HOLLOW,” “THE CHANNINGS,” “SQUIRE TREVLYN’S HEIR; OR, TREVLYN HOLD,” 
“BESSY RANE,” “ YERNER’S PRIDE,” “ROLAND YORKE,” “ ST. -MARTIN’S EYE,” 
OSWALD CRAY,” “THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT,” “THE LOST BANK NOTE,” 
“LORD OAKBURN’S DAUGHTERS; OR, THE EARL’S HEIRS,” “THE MYSTERY,” 

“THE CASTLE’S HEIR; OR, LADY ADELAIDE’S OATH,” “ MILDRED ARKELL,” 

“THE HAUNTED TOWER,” “A LIFE’S SECRET,” “THE LOST WILL,” 

“ ORYILLE COLLEGE,” “ A LIGHT AND A DARK CHRISTMAS,” 

“THE RUNAWAY MATCH,” “THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD,” 

“WILLIAM ALLAIR,” “ ELSTER’S FOLLY,” ETC., ETC. 


\ 


/ 


Printed from the author’s Manuscript and advanced Proof-sheets, 
purchased by us from Mrs. Henry Wood, and issued here simulta- 
neously with the publication of the work in Europe. 


T. 



PHILADELPHIA: 

B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; 

306 CHESTNUT STEEET. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in th^ year 1872, by t 

T. B. PETEKSOX & BEOTIIEES, 

In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.' 


MRS. HENRY WOOD’S NOVELS. 

AriTTTTX THE MAZE. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or 
$1.75 in cloth. 

DEXE HOLLOW. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1. <o in 
cloth. . 

BESSY EAXE. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $l.<o m 
cloth. , , 

TTTF niAXXIXGS. A Domestic Novel in Eeal Life. One volume, octavo. 

POLAND TOEKE. A Sequel to “ THE CHANNINGS.” One volume, octavo. 
EOL AJS U paper cover, or $1. < 5 in cloth. 

rriTir r HTTP’S HEIE • or, LADY ADELAIDE’S OATH. One volume, 
THE CASTLE S gpgo in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

GEOEGE CANTEEBUEY’S WILL. One -volume, octavo. Price $1.50 m 
paper cover, or $1.75 iii cloth, 

SOUIEE TEEVLYN’S HEIE; or, TEEVLYN HOLD. One volume, octavo. 

Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 m cloth. 
vruXEB’S PRIDE. A Tale of Domestic Life. One volume, octavo. Price 

' " $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

OSWALD CRAY, One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in 
cloth. . rA • 

THE SHADOW OF ASIILYDYAT. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in 
paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

T n-R-n 0 \TvBITRN’S DATJGIITERS ; 01 % THE EARL’S HEIRS. One voL 
LORD OA N octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

ELSTER’S FOLLY. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or $1.75 
in cloth. 

ST. ]MARTrN’’S EYE. One volume, octavo. Price $1.50 in paper cover, or 
$1.75 in cloth. 

THE RED COURT FARM. One volume, duodecimo. Price $1.50 in paper 
cover, or $1.75 in cloth. 

MILDRED ARKELL. One volume, duodecimo. ' Price $1.50 in paper cover, 
/ or $1.75 in cloth. 

T7i>e following wUtmes are all issued in Octavo Form, 

THE ]\IYSTERY. Price 75 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

A LIFE’S SECRET. Price 50 cents in paper cover, or $1.00 in cloth. 

THE LOST BAXK NOTE, and Martyn 'Ware’^s Temptation, Price 75 cents. 
THE RUNAWAY MATCH, and THE DEAN OF DENHAM. Price 60 cents. 
THE LOST WILL, and THE DIAMOND BRACELET. Price 50 cents. 

THE HAUNTED TOWER. Price 50 cents. 

OllVILLE COLLEGE. Price 50 cents. 

A LIOHT AND A DARK CHRISTMAS. Price 25 cents. 

I LL I AM AI.L AIR. Price 25 cents. . • . ' 

THE FOGGY NIGHT AT OFFORD. .Pj-^ce 25 cents. 

Tlie above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any one or all of the 
above books will be sent i>er mail, postage prepaid, to any part of the United 
States, on receipt of the price of the ones wanted, by the Publishers, 

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, 

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Q n 


i 7 2 ,./ 


COISTTEISTTS. ,,5 


Chapter Page 

L— MRS. AOTINNIAN’S HOME -21 

IL— LUCY CLEEVE 28 

III. — DONE AT SUNSET 36 

IV. — THE TRIAL 40 

Y.— UNABLE TO GET STRONG 46 

VL— AN ATMOSPHERE OF MYSTERY 51 

VIL— AT THE CHARING-CROSS HOTEL 56 

YIIL— IN THE AVENUE D’ANTIN 59 

IX.— DOWN AT FOX WOOD 65 

X.— MRS. ANDINNIAN’S SECRET 71 

XL— AT THE GATE OF THE MAZE ; 77 

XIL— TAKING AN EVENING STROLL 84 

XIIL— MISS BLAKE GETS IN. 90 

XIV. — MISS BLAKE ON THE WATCH 97 

XV. — REVEALED TO LADY ANDINNIAN 103 

XVL— A NIGHT AT THE MAZE 112 

XVII.— BEFORE THE WORLD f.. 118 

^VIIL— A NIGHT ALARM 124 

XIX.— IN THE SAME TRAIN 132 

XX.— ONLY ONE FLY AT THE STATION ' 139 

XXL— HARD TO BEAR 144 

XXIL— THE MAZE INVADED 153 

XXIII.— A NEW LODGER IN PARADISE ROW 158 

XXIV.— NURSE CHAFFEN ON DUTY 165 

^ XXV.— WATCHING THE HOUSE 173 

XXVL— AN AFTERNOON SERVICE 179 

XXVII.— AT LAWYER ST. HENRY’S 185 

XXVIIL— ANOTHER KETTLE-DRUM 191 

^XXJX.— ONLY A NIGHT OWL 199 

XXX.— ONE DAY IN HER LIFE 207 

XXXI.— BAFFLED 212 

XXXII.— AT SCOTLAND YARD 220 


( 19 ) 


CONTENTS. 


20 

Chapter Page 

XXXIII.— ILL-OMEXED CHANCES 226 

XXXIV.— ANN HOPLEY STARTLED 232 

XXXY.— UP THE SPOUTS AND DOWN THE DRAINS 237 

XXXVI.— TAKEN FROM THE EVIL TO COME 243 

XXXVII.— NEWS FOR MR. TATTON 248 

XXXVHL— MRS. CLEEVE AT FAULT 253 

XXXIX.— AT THE RED DAWN 261 

XL.— LAID TO HIS REST 268 

XLL— REPENTANCE 270 

XLIL— ONLY A MAN LIKE OTHER MEN 275 

CONCLUSION 278 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


CHAPTER 1. 

MRS. ANDINXIAn’s HOME. 

The house was ugly and old-fash- 
ioned, with some added modern im- 
provements, and was surrounded by a 
really beautiful garden. Though sit- 
uated close upon a large market town 
of Northamptonshire, it stood alone, 
excluded from the noise and bustle of 
the world. 

The occupant of this house was a 
widow lady, Mrs. Andinnian. Her 
husband, a post-captain in the Royal 
Navy, had been dead some years. 
She had two sons.^: The elder, Adam, 
was of no profession, and lived with 
her : the younger, Karl, was a lieuten- 
ant in one of Her Majesty’s regiments. 
Adam was presumptive heir to his un- 
cle, Sir Joseph Andinnian, a baronet 
of modern creation ; Karl had his pro- 
fession alone to look to, and a small 
private income of two hundred a year. 

They were not rich, these Andin- 
nians : though the captain had deemed 
himself well-off, what with his private 
fortune, and what with his pay. The 
private fortune was just six hundred a 
year; the pay not great: but Captain 
Andinnian’s tastes were simple, his 
wants few. At his death it was found 
that he had bequeathed his money in 
three equal parts : two hundred a year 
to his wife, and two hundred each to 
his sons. “ Adam and his mother will 
live together,^’ he said in the will : 

( 21 ) 


she’d not be parted from him : and 
four hundred pounds, with her bit of 
pension, will be enough for comfort. 
When Adam succeeds his uncle, they 
can make any fresh arrangement that 
pleases them. But I hope when that 
time shall come they will not forget 
Karl.” 

Mrs. Andinnian resented the will, 
and resen ed these words in it. Her 
elder boy, Adam, had always been first 
and foremost with her: never a mother 
loved a son more ardently than she 
loved him. For Karl she cared not. 
Captain Andinnian was not blind to 
the injustice, and perhaps thence arose 
the motive that induced him not to 
leave his wife’s two hundred pounds of 
income at her own disposal : when 
Mrs. Andinnian died, it would lapse to 
Karl. The captain had loved his sons 
equally: he would willingly have left 
them equally provided for in life, and 
divided the fortune that was to come 
sometime to Adam. Mrs. Andinnian, 
in spite of the expected rise for Adam, 
would have had him left better off from 
his father’s means than Karl. 

There had been nearly a life-long 
feud between the two family branches. 
Sir Joseph Andinnian and his brother 
the captain had not met for years and 
years : and it was a positive fact that 
the latter’s sons had never seen their 
uncle. For this feud the brothers 
themselves were not in the first in- 
stance to blame. It did not arise with 
them, but with their wives. Both 


oo 


AVITHIN THE MAZE. 


ladies were. of a haiiglity, overbearing, 
and implacable temper: they bad 
puarrelled very soon after tlieir first 
introduction to each otlier; tlie quarrel 
^^rew, and grew, and tinall}" involved 
tlie husbands as well in its vortex. 

Joseph Andinnian, who was the 
younger of the two brothers, had been 
a noted and very successful civil engin- 
eer. Some great work, that he had 
originated and completed, gained him 
his reward — a baronetcy. While he 
was in the very flush of his new hon- 
(•rs, an accident, that he met with, laid 
1dm for man}" months upon a sick bed. 
Xot only that: it incapacitated Idm 
future active service. So, when he 
was little more than a middle-aged 
man, he retired from his profession, 
and took up his abode for life at a 
})r(,'tty estate he had bought in Kent, 
called Eoxwood Court, barely an hour’s 
railway journey from London : by ex- 
ju-c-ss train not much more than half 
one. Here, he and his wife had lived 
sjii<*e : Sir Joseph growing more and 
more an invalid as the years went on. 
i'liey had no children; consequently his 
brother, Captain Andinnian, was heir 
to the baronetcy: and, following on Cap- 
tain Andinnian, Adam his eldest son. 

Cajdain Andinnian did not live to 
succeed. In what seemed the prime 
of his health and strength, just after 
he had landed from a three years’ voy- 
au^e, and was indulging in ambitious 
vi ions of a flag, symptoms of a mor- 
tal disease manifested themselves. 
He begged of his physicians to let him 
know the truth; and they complied — 
lie must expect but a few weeks more 
of life. Captain Andinnian, after 
taking a day or two to look matters 
fully in the face, went up to London, 
and thence down to Sir Joseph’s house 
in Kent. The brothers, once face to j 
face, met as though no ill-blood had 
*‘ver separated them : hands were 
](jcked in hands, gaze went out to gaze. 
Loth were simple-minded, earnest- 
hearted, aflecfcionate-natured men ; and 
but for their wives — to wliom, if the 
truth must be avowed, eac-h lay in sub- 
jet-tion — not a misword would ever 
have risen between them. 


I am dying, Joseph,” said the cap- 
tain, when some of their emotion had 
worn away. ‘‘ The doctors tell me so, 
and I feel it to be true. Katurally, it 
has set me on the thought of many 
things — that I’m afraid I have been 
too carelessly putting -off. What I 
have come to you chiefly for, is to ask 
about my son, Adam. You’ll tell me 
the truth, won’t you, Joseph, as be- 
tween brothers ” 

I’ll tell you anyfliing, Harry,” 
was Sir Joseph’s, answer. “ The truth 
about what?” 

Whether he is to succeed you, or 
not ? ” 

^^Why of course he must succeed: 
failing yourself. What are you think- 
ing of, Harry, to ask it ? I’ve no son 
of my own : it’s not likely I should 
have one now. He’ll be Sir Adam 
after me.” 

It’s not the title I was thinking of, 
Josepli. Failing a direct heir, I know 
that must come to him. But the 
property? — will he have' that ? It’s 
not entailed; and you could cut him 
out absolutely.” 

“ D’ye think I’d be so unjust as 
that, Harry ? A baronet’s title, and 
nothing to keep it up upon! 1 have 
never had an idea of leaving it away 
from you, or from him if you went 
first. When Adam succeeds to my 
name and rank, he’ll succeed to ray 
property. Were my wife to survive 
me, she’d have this place for life, and a 
good part of the income: but Adam 
would get it all at her death.” 

This takes a weight ofl' my mind,” 
avowed Captain Andinnian. Adam 
was not brought up to any profession. 
Beyond the two hundred a year he’ll 
get from me ” 

“A bad thing, that — no profession,” 
interrupted Sir Joseph. If I had 
ten sons, and they were all heirs to ten 
baronetcies, each one should be brought 
up to use either his br.ains or his 
hands.” 

“ It’s what I’ve urged over and over 
again. But the wife — you know what 
she is — she set her face against it. 

‘ He’ll be Sir Adam Andinnian of Box- 
wood,’ she’d answer me with ; ^ and 




MRS. ANDINNIAX’S HOME. 


23 


be shall not soil his hands with wwk.’ 
I have been nearlj" always- afloat, too, 
Joseph : not on the spot to enforce 
things : something has lain in that.’’ 

‘‘ I wonder the young man should 
not have put himself forward to be of 
use in the world ! ” 

Adam is idly inclined, I fear. 
One thing has been against him, and 
that’s his health. He’s as tall and 
strong a young f^ow to look at as 
^mu’d meet in a Summer’s day, but 
lie is anything but sound in constitu- 
tion. A nice. fellow too, Joseph.” 

‘‘Of good disposition ? ” 

“ Very. We had used to be almost 
afraid of him as a boy; he would put 
himself into such unaccountable fits of 
passion. Just as — as — somebody else 
used to do, you know, Joseph,” added 
the sailor with some hesitation. 

Sir Joseph nodded. The somebody 
else was the captain’s wJfe, and 
Adam’s mother. Sir Joseph’s own wife 
was not exempt from the same kind of 
failing : but iti a less wild degree than 
Mrs. Andinnian. 

“But Adam seems to have outgrown 
all that : I’ve seen and heard nothing 
of it since he came to manhood,” re- 
sumed the captain. “ I wish from rny 
heart he bad some profession to occupy 
him. His mother always filled IJm 
up with the notion that he would be 
your heir and not want it.” 

“ He’ll be ray heir, in all senses, 
safe enough, Harry ; though I’d rather 
have heard that he was given to indus- 
try than idleness. How does he get 
through his time ? Young men natu- 
rally seek some pursuit as an outlet for 
their superfluous activity.” 

“ Adam has a pursuit that he makes 
a hobby of ; and that is his love of 
flowers; in fact his love of gardening 
in any shape. He’ll be out amidst the 
plants and shrubs from sunrise to sun- 
set. Trained to it, he’d have made a 
second Sir Joseph Paxton. I should 
like you to see him he is very hand- 
some.” 

“And the young one — what is he 
like? What’s his name, by tlie way ? 
Henry ? ” 

..“No. Karl.” 


repeated Sir Joseph in 
surprise, as if questioning whether he 
heard aright. 

“Ay, Karl. His mother w^as in 
Germany when he was born, it being 
a cheap place to live in — I was only a 
poor lieutenant then, Joseph, and just 
gone off to be stationed before the 
West Indies. A great friend of hers 
there, some German lad5^ had a little 
boy named Karl. My wife fell in love 
with the name, and called her own in- 
fant after it.” 

“Well, it sounds an outlandisii 
name to me,” cried the baronet, who 
was entirely unacquainted with every 
language but his own. 

“ So I thought, w^hen she first wrote 
me word,” assented Captain Andin- 
nian. “ But after I came home; and 
got used to call the lad by it, you don’t 
know how I grew to like it. The natne 
gains upon your favor in a wonderful 
manner, Joseph : and I have heard 
other people say the same. It is 
Charles in English, you know.” 

“ Then why not call him Charles ? ” 

“ Because the name is really Karl, 
and not Charles. He was baptized iVi 
Germany, but christened in England, 
and in both places it was done as 
‘ Karl.’ His mother has never cared 
very much for him.” 

“For him or his name, do you 
mean ? ” 

“ Oh, for him.” 

Sir Joseph opened his eyes. “ Why 
on earth not ? ” 

“ Because all the love her nature is 
capable of — and in her it’s tolerably 
strong— is given to Adam. She can’t 
spare an atom from him : her love for 
him is as a kind of idolatry. For one 
thing, she was very ill when Karl was 
born, and neither nursed nor tended 
him : he was given over to the care of 
her sister who lived with her, and who 
had him wholly, so to say, for the first 
three years pf his life.” 

“ And what’s Karl like?” repeated 
Sir Joseph. 

“ You ought to see him,” burst forth 
the Captain with animation. “He’s 
everything that’s good and noble and 
worth 3 \ Joseph, there are not many 




24 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


young men of the present day so at- 
tractive as Karl.’’ 

‘‘With a tenden«y to he passionate, 
like his brother ? ” 

‘•Not he. A tendency to patience, 
rather. They have put upon him at 
liome — between ourselves ; kept him 
down, you know; both mother and 
brother. He is several years younger 
than Adam ; but they are attached to 
each other. A more gentle-natured, 
sweet-tempered lad than Karl never 
lived : all his instincts are those of a 
gentleman. He will make a brave 
soldier. He is Ensign in the — reg- 
iment.” 

“ The — regiment,” repeated Sir 
Joseph. “ Kather a crack corps that, 
is it not ? ” 

“ Yes : Karl has been lucky. He 
will have to make his own way in the 
world, for I. can’t give him much. 
Eut now that I am assured of your 
intentions as to Adam, things look a 
trifle brighter. Joseph, I thank you 
with all my heart.” 

Once more the brothers clasped 
hands. This reunion was the pleasant- 
est event of their later lives. The 
captain remained two days at Eox- 
wood. Lady Andinnian was civilly 
courteous to him, but never conlial. 
She did not second her husband’s press- 
ing wish that he should prolong his 
stay ; neither did she once ask after 
any of his family. 

Captain Andinnian’s death took 
place, as anticipated. His will, when 
opened, proved to be what was men- 
tioned above. Some years had gone 
by since. IMrs. Andinnian and her 
son Adam had continued to live to- 
gether in their quiet home in Nor- 
thamj)tonshire ; Karl, lieutenant now, 
and generally with his regiment, pay- 
ing them an occasional visit now and 
then. No particular change had oc- 
curred, save the death of Lady Andin- 
iiian. The families had continued to 
be estranged as heretofore : for never a 
word of invitation had come out of 
Fox wood. Keport ran that Sir Joseph 
was ailing much ; very much indeed 
since the Ipss of his wife. And, now 
that so much of introduction is over, we 
can go on with the story. 


A beautiful day in April. At a 
large window thrown open to the mid- 
day sun, just then very warm and 
bright, sat a lady of some five and fifty 
years. A tall, handsome, commanding 
woman, resolution written in every line 
of her haught}^ face. She wore a black 
silk gown with the slightest possible 
modicum of crape on it, and the gui- 
pure cap — or, rather, the guipure lap- 
pets, for of cap there was not much to 
be seen — had in it some black ribbon. 
Her purple black hair w^as well pre- 
served and abundant still; her black 
e^^es were stern, and fearlessly honest. 
It was Mrs. Andinnian. 

She was knitting what is called a 
night-sock. Some poor sick pensioner 
of hers or her son’s — for both had their 
charities — needed the comfort. Her 
thoughts were busy ; her eyes went 
fondly out to the far end of the garden, 
where she could just discern her sou 
against the shrubs : the fairest and 
dearest sight to Mrs. Andinnian that 
earth had ever contained for her, or 
ever would contain. 

“It is strange Sir Joseph does not 
write for him,” ran her thoughts — and 
they very often did run in the same 
groove. “ I cannot imagine why he 
does not. Adam ought to be on the 
spot and get acquainted with his inher- 
itance : his uncle must know he ought. 
But that I have never stooped to ask 
a favor in my life, I would write to Sir 
Joseph, and profier a visit for Adam, 
and — for — yes, for me. During that 
woman’s lifetime Adam was not likely 
to be welcomed there : but the woman’s 
gone : it is two months this very day 
since she died.” 

The woman, thus unceremoniously 
alluded to, was Lady Andinnian : and 
the slight mourning worn w^as for her. 
Some intricacy in the knitting caused 
Mrs. Andinnian to bend her head: 
when she looked up again, her son was 
not to be seen. At the same moment, 
a faint sound of ^distant conversation 
smote her ear. The work dropped on 
her lap ; with a look of annoyance she 
lifted her head to listen. 

“ He is talking to that girl again I 
I am sure of it.” 

Lift her head and her ears as she 


MRS. ANDINNIAX’S HOME. 


25 


would, she could not tell for certain 
whose voices they were. Instinct, 
however, that instinct of suspicion we 
all feel within us, was enough. 

A very respectable man-servant of 
middle age, thoughtful in face, fiiir in 
complexion, with a fringe of hght hair 
round the sides of his otherwise bald 
head, entered the room and presented a 
note to his mistress. Who is it 
from?’’ she asked as she took it off 
the silver waiter. An old waiter, and 
bearing the Andinnian crest. 

‘^Mrs. Pole’s housemaid has brought 
it, ma’am. She is waiting for an an- 
swer.” 

It was but a friendly note of invita- 
tion from a neighbor, asking Mrs. 
Andinnian and her two sons to go in 
that evening. For Karl, the second 
son, had come home for a two days’ 
visit, and was just then writing letters 
in another room. 

“Yes, we will go — if Adam has no 
engagement,” said Mrs. Andinnian to 
herself, but half aloud. “ Hewitt, go 
and tell Mr. Andinnian that 1 wish to 
speak with him.” 

The man went across the garden 
and through the wilderness of shrubs. 
There stood his master at an open gate, 
talking to a very pretty girl with 
bright hair and rosy cheeks. 

“ My mistress wishes to see you, Mr. 
Adam.’’ 

Adam Andinnian turned round, a 
defiant expression on his haughty face, 
as if he did not like the interruption. 
He was a very fine man, of some three- 
and-thirty years, tall and broad-shoul- 
dered, with his mother’s cast of proud 
and handsome features, her fresh com- 
plexion, and her black hair. His ej^es 
were dark grey, deeply -set in the head 
and rarely beautiful. His teeth also 
were remarkably good ; white, even, 
and prominent; and he showed them 
very much. 

“ Tell my mother I’ll come directly, 
Hewitt.” 

Hewitt went back with the mes- 
sage. The young lady, who had turn- 
ed to one of her own flower-beds, for 
the gardens joined, was bending over 
some budding tulips. 


“ I think they will be out next week, 
Mr. Andinnian,” she looked round to 
say. 

“ Never mind the tulips,” he- an- 
swered after a pause, during which he 
had leaned on the iron railings, look- 
ing dark and haughty. “ I want to 
hear more about this. Rose, come 
here.” 

The house to which this other garden 
belonged was a humble, unpretentious 
dwelling, three parts cottage, one part 
villa. A Mr. Turner lived in it with 
his wife and niece. The former was 
in good retail business in the town : a 
grocer : and he and his wife were as 
humble and unpretentious as their 
dwelling. The niece. Rose, was differ- 
ant. Her father had been a lawyer in 
small local practice : and at his death 
Rose — her mother also dead — was 
taken by her uncle and aunt, who 
loved both her and her childish beaut}^. 
Since then she had lived with them, 
and they educated her well. She was 
a good girl : and in the essential points 
of mind, manner, and appearance, a 
lady. But her position was of neces- 
sity a somewhat isolated one. With 
the trades-people of the town Rose 
Turner did not care to mix: she felt 
that, however worthy, they were be- 
neath her, quite of another order alto- 
gether: on the other hand superior 
people would not associate with Miss 
Turner, or put so much as the soles of 
their shoes over the door sill of the 
grocer’s house. At sixteen she had been 
sent to a finishing school : at eighteen 
she came back as pretty and as nice a 
girl as one of fastidious taste would 
wish to see. 

Years before, Adam and Karl An- 
dinnian had made friends with the lit- 
tle child : they continued to be inti- 
mate with her as brothers and sister. 
Latterly, it had dawned on Mrs. An- 
dinnian’s perception that Adam and 
Miss Turner were a good deal together ; 
certainly more than they need be. 
Adam had even got to neglect his flow- 
ers, that he so much loved, and to 
waste his time talking to Rose. It 
cannot be said that Mrs. Andinnian 
feared any real complication — any un- 


WIT III X THE MAZE. 


desirable result of any kind ; the great 
difference in their ages might alone 
liave served to dispel the notion : Adam 
was thirty - three ; Miss Turner only 
just out of her teens. But she was 
vexed with her son for being so frivo- 
lous and foolish : and, although she 
did not acknowledge it to herself, a 
vague feeling of uneasiness in regard 
to it lay at the bottom of her heart. 
As to Adam, he kept his thoughts to 
himself. Whether this new propensity 
to waste his hours with Miss Turner 
arose out of mere pastime, or whether 
he entertained for her any wanner feel- 
ing, was his own secret entirely. 

Things — allowing for argument’s 
sake that there was some love ivi the 
matter — were destined not to go on 
with uninterrupted smoothness. There 
is a proverb to the effect, 3mu know. 
During the last few weeks a young 
medical stndent^amed Martin Scott, 
had become enamoured of Miss Tur- 
ner. At first, he had confined him- 
self to silent admiration. Latterl}^ 
he had taken to speaking. Very free- 
mannered, after the fashion of medical 
students of graceless nature, he had 
twice snatched a kiss from her: and 
the young lady, smarting under the 
infliction, indigpant, aij^iw, had whis- 
pered the tale to Adam^Andinnian. 
And no sooner wa#^it done, than she 
repented : for the hot fury that shone 
out of Mr. Andinnian’s face, startled 
her greatly. 

Thej" were standing together again 
at the small iron gate ere the sound of 
Hewitt’s footsteps well died away. 
Bose Turner had the real golden hair 
that ladies have taken to covet and 
spend no end of mone}’’ on pernicious 
dyes to try and obtain. Her garden hat 
was untied, and she was playing with 
its strings. 

“ Bose, I must know all ; and I insist 
upon your telling me. Go on.^’ 

But indeed, I have told you all, 
Mr. Andinnian.” 

Mr. Andinnian gazed steadfastly in- 
to Miss Bose’s eyes, as if he would 
get the truth out of their very depths. 
It was evident that she spoke unwil- 
lingly, and -onl}^ in obedience to his 
strong will. 


^^It was last night, was it, that he 
came up, this brute of a Scott? ’’ 

Last night, about six,” she answer- 
ed. We were at tea, and my aunt 
asked him to take some — ” 

‘•Which he did of course?”- savage- 
ly interitipted Mr. Andinnian. 

‘•Yes; and eat two muffins all to 
himself,” laughed Miss Turner, trying 
to turn the anger off. Mr. Andinnian 
did not like the merriment. 

“Be serious if you please, child; 
this is a serious matter. Was it after 
tea that he — that he dared to insult 
you ?” and the speaker shut his right 
hand with a meaning gesture as he 
said it. 

“ Yes. Aunt went to the kitchen to 
see about something that was to be 
prepared for my uncle’s supper — for 
she is fidgett}^ over the cooking, and 
never wdll trust it to the servant. 
Martin Scott then began to tease as 
usual ; saying how much he cared for 
me, and asking me to wait for him un- 
til he could get into practice.” 

“Well?’’ questioned Adam impa- 
tiently as she stopped. 

“ I told him that he had already had 
his answer from me and that he had 
no right to bring the matter up agaiig 
and that it was foolish besides, as it 
only set me more against him. Then 
I sat down to the piano and played 
the Chatelaine — he only likes loud 
music — and sang a song, thinking it 
would pass the time in peace until aunt 
returned. By and by I heard my 
uncle’s latch-key in the front door, and 
I was crossing the room to go out and 
meet him, when Martin Scott laid hold 
of m}^ arm, and — and kissed mei.” 

Mr. Andinnian bit his lips almost to 
bleeding. His face was frightful in its 
anger. Bose shivered a little. 

“ I am sorry I told you, Mr. Andin- 
nian.” 

“ Xow listen, Bose. If ever this 
Martin Scott does the like again. I'll 
shoot him.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Andinnian ! ” 

“ I’ll warn him. In the most un- 
mistakable words ; words that he can- 
not misconstrue; I will warn him of 
what I’ll do. Let him disregard it at . r 


MRS. ANDINNIAX’S HOME. 


27 


his peril : if lie does, 1^11 shoot him as 
I wonhl shoot a dog.^’ 

The very ferocity of the threat, its 
extreme nature, disarined Miss Turn- 
er’s belief in it. She smiled up in his 
face and ^look her head, but was con- 
tent to let the subject pass away in 
silence. Adam Andinnian, totally for- 
getting his mother’s message, began 
talking of pleasanter things. 

Meanwhile, Mrs. Andinnian’s pa- 1 
tience was growing exhausted : slie 
hated to keep other gpople’s servants 
waiting her .pleasure. Her fingers 
were on the bell to ring for Hewitt, 
when Karl entered . the room, sotne 
sealed letters in his hand. A slender 
man of seven -and- twenty, slightly 
above the middle height, with pale, 
clearly-itut features, and a remarkably 
nice expression of countenance. He 
had the deeply-set beautiful grey e 3 ^es 
of his brother; but his hair, instead 
of being black and straight, was brown 
and wavj". An attractive looking man, 
this Karl Andinnian. 

am going ogt to post these let- 
ters,” said Karl “ Can I do anything 
for you in the town, mother ? ” 

The voice was attractive too. Low- 
toned, clear, melodious, full of truth : 
a voice to be trusted all over the world. 
Adam’s was inclined to be harsh, and 
he had rather a loud way of speaking. 

“ Kothing in the town,” replied 
Mrs. Andinnian : and, now that ^mu 
notice it, her voice was harsh to<5. 

But you can go and ask jmur brother.' 
why he keeps me waiting. He is be- 
ll ind the shrubbery.’^ 

Karl left his letters on the table, 
traversed the garden, and found Adam 
with Miss Turner. They turned to 
wait his approach. A half doubt, he 
knew not wherefore, dawned for the 
first time on his mind. 

‘‘ How are you this morning. 
Rose ? ” he asked, raising his hat. 

“ Adam, the mother seems vexed : 
jmu are keeping her waiting, she says, 
and she wishes to know the reason of 
it.” ^ 

I forgot all about it,” cried Adam. 
‘‘Plague take the thorn !” 

For just at that moment he had run 


a thorn into his finger. Karl stayed 
laughing and talking with Miss Turn- 
er : there was no obligation on him to 
return forthwith to the house. 

“ Go back, will ^mu, Karl, and tell 
the mother Pm sorry I forgot it. I 
shall be there as soon as 3 mu are.” 

“A genteel way of getting rid of 
me,” thought Karl w’ith ii laugh, as 
he at once turned to plunge into the 
! wide shrubber 3 ^ “ Good day to you, 
Rose.’^ 

But wdien he was fairly beyond 
their sigj^it Karl’s face became grave 
as a judge’s. “ Surely Adam is not 
drifting into anything serious in that 
quarter!” ran his thoughts. “It 
wmuld never do.” 

“ Well — have you seen Adam ? ” 
began Mrs. Andinnian, when he en- 
tereds-’v 

“ YeSs^. He ia coming immediately.” 

“ Coming ! ’’ — and she curled her 
vexed lips. “ He ought to come. Who 
is he with, Karl ? ” 

“ With Miss Turner.” 

“ What nonsense 1 Idling about 
with a senseless child ! ” 

“ I snppose it is nothing but non- 
sense?” spoke Karl, incautiously. 
“ She — Miss Turner — would scarcely 
be the right wmman in the right place.” 

His mother glanced at him sharply. 
“In what place? — what wmnian ?” 

“As Lady Andinnian.” 

Karl had angered his mother before 
in his life-time, but scarcelj^ever as now. 
Sh.e turned livid as death, and took up 
the first thing that came to her hand 
— a silver inkstand, kept for show, not 
use — as if she would hurl it at his 
head. 

“ How dare you, sir, even in suppo- 
sition, so traduce your brother?” 

“ I beg jmur pardon, mother. I 
spoke wfithput thought.” 

Xt that <;;instant Adam came in. 
He saw that something was amiss. 
Mrs. Andinnian spoke abruptlj^ about 
the invitation for the evening : Adam 
said he could go, and she left the room 
to give, herself, a verbal answer to the 
waiting servant. 

“ What was the matter, Karl ? ” 

“ The mother wms vexed at your 


28 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


staying with Hose Turner instead of 
coming in. It was nonsense, she said, 
to be idling about with a senseless 
child. I — unfortunately, but quite un- 
intentionally — ad<led to her anger by 
remarking that I supposed it non- 
sense, for she would scarcely be suita- 
ble for a Lady Andinnian.” 

^•Just attend to your own affairs,’^ 
growled Adam. “ Keep yourself in 
your place.” 

Karl looked up with his sweet smile : 
answering with his frank and gentle 
voice. They acted like oil upon the 
troubled waters. 

You know, Adam, that I should 
never think of interfering with you, or 
opposing 3’our inclinations. In the 
wide world, there’s no one, I think, so 
anxious as I am for your happiness 
and welfare.” 

Adam did know it. And their hands 
met in true affection. Few brothers 
loved each other as did Adam and 
Karl Andinnian. Seeing them to- 
gether thus, the}’ were undoubtedly 
two fine young men — as their sailor 
father had once observed to his broth- 
er. But Karl, with his nameless air 
of innate goodness and refinement, 
looked the greater gentleman. 


CHAPTER II. 

LUCY CLEEVE. 

Lingering under the light of the 
sweet May moon, arm within arm, 
their voices hushed, their tread slow, 
went two individuals, whom few, look- 
ing upon, could have failed to mistake 
for anything but lovers. Lovers they 
were, in heart, in mind, in thought: 
with as pure and passionate and ar- 
dent a love as ever was felt on this 
earth. And yet, no word, to tell of it, 
ha<l ever been spoken between them. 

It was one of those cases where love, 
all unpremeditated, had grown up, 
swiftly, surely, silently. Had either 
of them known that they were drift- 
ing into it, they might have had suffi- 
cient prudence to separate forthwith, 
before the danger grew into certainty. 


For, he, the obscure and nearly por- 
tionless young soldier, had the sense 
to see that he would be regarded as no 
fit match for the daughter of Colonel 
and the Honorable Mrs. Cleeve ; both 
of high lineage and inordinately proud 
of it to boot: and she, Lucy Cleeve, 
knew that, for all her good descent, 
she was nearly portionless too, and 
that her future husband, whosoever he 
might turn out to be, must possess a 
vast deal more of this world’s goods 
than did Lieutenant Andinnian. Ay, 
and of family also. But there it was : 
they had drifted into this mutual love 
unconsciously: each knew that it was 
for all time : and that, in comparison, 
‘^family” and goods ” were to them 
as nothing. 

‘Lind so Miss Blake is back, Lucy ? ” 
The words, spoken by Mr. Andin- 
nian, broke one of those long pauses 
of delicious silence, that in themselves 
seem like tastes of heaven. Lucy 
Cleeve’s tones in answer were low and 
soft as his. 

“ She came to-day. I hardly knew 
her. Her hair is all put on the top of 
her head : and — and — ” 

Lucy stopped. “And is of another 
color,” she had been about to conclude. 
But it might not be quite good-natured 
to say it, even to one to whom she 
would willingly have given her whole 
heart’s confidence. Reared in the high- 
est of all high and true principles, and 
naturally gifted with them, Lucy had 
a peculiar dread of deceit: her dislike 
of it extended evei\ to the changing 
of the color of the hair. She resumed 
hastily and with a slight laugh. 

“ Theresa is in love with Rome ; es- 
pecially with its cardinals. One of 
them was very civil to her, Karl.*’ 

“ About this picnic to-morrow, Lucy. 
Are you to be allowed to go ? ” 

“ Yes, now Theresa’s here. Mamma 
would not have liked to send me with- 
out some one from home: and the 
weather is hardly hot enough for her- 
self to venture. Do — you — go ? ” she 
asked timidly. 

“ Yes.” 

There was silence again ; each heart 
beating in unison. The prospect of a 


LUCY CLEEVE. 


29 


whole day together, spent amidst glens, 
and woods, and dales, was too much 
for utterance*. 

For the past twelve months, Lieu- 
tenant Aiidinnian’s regiment was quar- 
tered at Winchester. On his arrival, 
he had brought with him a letter of 
introduction to one of the clergy there 
— a good old man, whose rectory was 
on the outskirts of the town. The 
liev. Mr. Blake and his wife took a 
great fancy to the young lieutenant, 
and made much of him. Living with 
them at that time was a relative, a 
Miss Blake. This lady was an orphan : 
she had a small fortune, somewhere 
between two and three hundred a year : 
and she stayed sometimes with the 
Blakes, sometimes with the Cleeves, to 
whom she and the Blakes were like- 
wise related. 

A novel writer has to tell secrets : 
not always pleasant ones. In this case, 
it must be disclosed that the one secret 
wish of Theresa Blake’s life, to which 
her whole energies (in a lady-like way) 
were directed, was — to get married, 
and to marry well. If we could see 
into the hearts of some other young 
ladies, and especially when they have 
left the bloom of youth behind, we 
might find them filled with the same 
ardent longing. Hitherto Miss Blake’s 
hopes had not been realized. She 
was nol: foolish enough to marry down- 
right unwisely : and nothing eligible 
had come in her way. Considering 
that she was so very sensible a young 
woman — for good common sense was 
what Miss Blake prided herself upon 
— it was ver}^ simple of her to take up 
the notion she did — that the attractive 
young lieutenant’s frequent visits to 
the rectory were made for her sake. 
She fell over head and ears in love 
with him : she thought that his atten- 
tions (ordinary attentions in truth, 
and paid to her as the only young lady 
of a house where the other inmates 
were aged) spoke all plainly of his 
love for her. Of what are called 
‘‘flirtations” Theresa Blake had had 
enough, and to spare : but of true love 
she had hitherto known nothing. She 
ignored the difference in their years — 
for there was a difiereiice — and she 


waited for the time when the young 
officer should speak out : her income 
joined to his and his pay, would make 
what she thought they could live very 
comfortably upon. Love softens diffi- 
culties as does nothing else in life : be- 
fore she knew Karl Andinnian, Miss 
Blake would have scorned the notion 
of taking any man who could not have 
offered her a thousand a year. 

But now — what was Karl Andin- 
hian’s share in all this ? Simply 
none. He had no more notion that 
the young lady was in love with 
him, than that old Mrs. Blake was. 
If Miss Blake did not see the years she 
had come to, he did ; and would nearly 
as soon, as far as age went, have offer- 
ed to marry his mother. To a young 
man of twenty-six, a woman of thirty- 
four looks quite old. And so, in this 
misapprehension — the one finding fresh 
food for her hopes day by day, the 
other at ease in his utter unconscious- 
ness — the summer and autumn had 
passed. At the close of autumn, Miss 
Blake departed with some friends for 
the Continent, more particularly to 
visit Paris and Home. But it was a 
long-ago-made engagement, and also 
that she had so wished to see those re- 
nowned places, she would not have torn 
herself away from the locality that 
contained Mr. Andinnian. 

Shortly afterwards the Cleeves re- 
turned to Winchester, after a long 
absence. They resided without the 
town, just beyond Mr. Blake’s rectory. 
Lucy Cleeve had been in the habit of 
spending nearly as much time at the 
rectory as at home : and it was from 
the never-tiring training of him and 
his good wife that Lucy had learned 
to be the truly excellent girl she was. 
On the very day of her return, she 
and Karl Andinnian met : and — if it 
was not exactly love at first sight with 
them, it was something very like it ; 
for each seemed drawn to the other by 
that powerful, sympathetic attraction 
that can no more be controlled than 
explained and accounted for. A few 
more meetings, and they lov^ed for all 
time: and since then they had gone 
on living in a dream of happiness. 

There they were, pacing together 


30 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


t1)e iN^ctory "urdon under the warm 
!May niur.nli^ht. Tlie rector liad been 
calii' I to a sick parisliioner, and they 
j<ad str )lled out with liiin to tlie gate. 
^Irs. iUake, confined to her sofa, was 
uiK'Uspicious as the da}". Lucy, twen- 
ty years of age, was looked upon by 
lier as a cliild still : and tlie old are 
apt to forget the sweet beguileiuents 
of their own long-past youth, and that 
the young of the present day can be 
drifting into the same. 

“It is very pleasant ; quite warm,^^ 
s]>oke jNIr. Andinnian. “ Would you 
like another turn, Lucy ? 

They both turned simultaneously 
without a word of assent from her, and 
])aced side by side to the gate in a 
rapture of silence. Lucy quitted him 
to pluck a spray from the sweet-brier 
hedge; and then they turned again.. 
The moon went under a cloud. 

“■ Take my arm, Lucy. It is getting 
quite dark.^’ 

81;e took it ; and the night hid the 
Idushes on her transparent cheeks. 
Tiiey were half-way down the walk, 
and Karl was bending his head to 
speak to her ; his tpnes low, though 
their subject was nothing more than 
the projected party for the morrow; 
wlion some one approached the gate 
fi’om ihe road, and stood there looking 
at thorn. It was Miss Blake — who 
had tliat day returned from her conti- 
nental excursion, and taken up her 
abodi*. as arranged, at Colonel Cleeve’s. 
Wliether at the rectory or at Colonel 
Cdeeve’s, Miss Blake paid at the rate 
of one hundred a year for the accom- 
modation ; and then, as she said, she 
was indepiMident. Her sojourn abroad 
hadl not tended to cool one whit of her 
love fnr air. Andinnian, but rather 
augmented it. She had come home 
with all her pulses bounding, and her 
heart glowing at the prospect of seeing 
him again. 

But — .she saw him with some one 
(d.^e. I'lie moon was out again in all 
her silvery brightness, and Miss Blake 
had keen eyes. She saw one on his 
arm, to whom he seemed to be whis- 
piering. to u hosie face his own was bent; 
one younger and fairer than she was — 


Lucy Oleeve. A • certain possibility 
of what it might mean darted through 
her mind with a freezing horror that 
caused her to shiver. But only for a 
moment. She drove it away as absurd^ 
— and opeu.ed the gate. They turned 
at the sound of her footsteps and 
loosed arms. jMr. Andinnian doffed 
his hat in salutation, and held out his 
hand. 

“ Miss Blake 1” 

“ I came with old John to fetch 
you, Lucy, wanting to see dear ]\trs. 
Blake,’^ she said in explanation, let- 
ting her hand lie in KarPs. “And it 
is a lovely night.^’ 

Coming in to the light of the sit- 
ting-room you could see what j\Iiss 
Blake was like — and Lucy, also, for 
that matter. Miss Blake was tall, 
upright; and, if there was a fault in 
her exceedingly well-made figure, it 
was that it was too thin. Her features 
and complexion were good, her eyes 
were watchful and had a green tinge ; 
and the hair, originally red, had been 
converted into a kind of auburn that 
had more than one shade of color on 
it. Altogether, Miss Blake was nice- 
looking; and she invarialdy dressed 
well, in the bight of any fashion that 
might prevail. What with her well- 
preserved face, her large quantity of 
youthful hair, and her natty attire, she 
had an idea’ that she looked years and 
years less than her real age. 

And Lucy ? Lucy was a gentle 
girl with a soft, sweet face ; a face of 
intellect, and goodness, and sensibility. 
Her refined features were of the best 
type ; her clear eyes were of a remark- 
ably light brown, the long eyelashes 
ami the Lair somewhat darker. ]5y 
the side of the upright and always 
self-possessed Miss Blake — I had al- 
most written self-asserting — she looked 
like a timid, shrinking child. What 
with Miss Blake’s natural bight, and 
the unnatural pyramid of hair on the 
top of her head, Lucy appeared short. 
But Lucy was quite of the middle 
bight of worneft. 

“I wonder — I wonder how much he 
has seen of Lucy ? thought Mi&s 
Blake. 


LUCY CLEEVE. 


31 


Slie contrived to gather that the 
lieutenant had been a tolerabl^y fre- 
quent visitor at Colonel Cleeve’s during 
the spring. She observed — and Miss 
Blake’s observance was worth having 
— that his good-night to Lucy was 
spoken in a dilFerent tone from the one 
to herself: lower, and softer. 

There cannot be anything between 
them ! There cannot, surely, be !” 

Nevertheless the very thought of it 
caused her face to grow cold as with a 
mortal sickness. 

1 shall see to-morrow,” she mur- 
mured. ^‘They will be together at 
the picnic, and I shall see.” 

Miss Blake did see. Saw what, to 
her jealous eyes ; ay, and to her cool 
ones ; was proof positive. Lieutenant 
Andinnian and Miss Lucy Cleeve were 
lost in love the one for the other. In 
her conscientious desire to do her duty 
— and she did hope and believe that 
no other motive or passion prompted 
the step — Miss Blake, looking upon 
lierself as a sort of guardian over 
Lucy’s interests, disclosed her suspi- 
cions to Mrs. Cleeve. What would be 
a suitable match for herself, might be 
entirely unsuitable for Lucy. 

Colonel Augustus and the Honor- 
able Mrs. Cleeve were very excellent 
people, as people go : their one prom- 
inent characteristic — perhaps some 
would rather call it, failing — being 
pride. Colonel Cleeve could claim 
relationship, near or remote, with 
three lords and a Scotch duke : Mrs. 
Cleeve was a peer’s daughter. Their 
only son was in India with his regi- 
ment; their only daughter, introduced 
and presented but the last year, was 
intended to make a good -marriage, 
both as regards rank and wealth. 
They knew what a charming girl she 
was, and believed she could not fail to 
be sought. One gentleman, indeed, 
had asked for her in London; that is, 
had solicited of the Colonel the per- 
mission to ask for her. He was a 
bankers son. Colonel Cleeve thanked 
him with courtesy, but said that his 
riaughfer must not marr}^ beneath lier 
cVwn rank : he and her mother hoped 


she would be a peeress. It may there- 
fore be judged what was the consier- 
nation caused, when Miss Blake drop- 
ped a hint of her observations. 

The remark already made, as to 
Mrs. Blake’s blind unsuspicion, held 
good in regard to Colonel Cleeve and 
his wife. They had likewise taken a 
fancy to the attractive young lieuten- 
ant and were never backward in wel- 
! coming him to their house. And yet 
they never glanced at Lucy's interests 
in the matter, or supposed that she 
likewise could be alive to the same 
attractions ; or that her attractions 
had charms for the lieutenant. How 
frequent tliese cases of blindness occur 
in the world, let the world answer. 
Colonel and. Mrs. Cleeve would as soon 
have suspected Lucy was falling in 
love with the parish clerkv And why ? 
Because the noti:m that any one, so 
much beneath them in family and posi- 
tion as Mr. Andinnian, should aspire 
to her, or that she could stoop to think 
of him, never would have entered their 
imaginations, unless put there. 

Mrs. Cleeve, dismayed, sick, fri ght- 
ened, but always mild and gentle, 
ged of Lucy to say that it was a cruel 
mistake; and that there was ^‘noth- 
ing ” between her and Mr. Andinnian. 
Lucj^, amidst her blinding tears, an- 
swered that nothing whatever had 
been spoken between them. ILit she 
was too truthful, too honest, to deny 
the implication that there existed love; 
Colonel Cleeve sent for Mr. Andia- 
nian. 

The young man was just coming in 
from a full-dress parade when the note 
arrived. It was a peremptory one. 
He walked up at once, not staying 
to put off his regimentals. Colonel 
Cleeve, looking the thorough gentle- 
man that he was, and wearing his cus- 
tomary blue frock-coat with a white 
cambric frill at his breast, met him at 
the door of his library. He was short 
and slight, and had mild blue eyes. 
His white hair was cut nearly close, 
and his forehead and head were so fair 
that at first sight it gave him the ap- 
pearance of being powdered. The ser- 
vant closed the door upon them. 


32 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


That Karl Andinnian was, as the 
phrase runs, “ taken to by the plain 
questioning of the Colonfel, plunged 
into without preface, cannot be denied. 
“ Is it true that there is an attachment 
between you and my daughter? Is it 
true, sir, that 3'ou have been making 
love to her ? ’’ 

For a short while Karl was silent. 
The Colonel saw his embarrassment. 
It was onl}^ the momentary embarrass- 
ment of surprise, and perhaps of vex- 
ation : but Karl, guileless and strictly 
honorable, never thought of not meet- 
ing the matter with perfect truth. 

‘‘ That there does exist affection be- 
tween me and 3"our daughter, sir, I 
cannot deny. At least, I can answer 
for myself — that the truest and tender- 
est love man is, or, as I believe, can be 
capable of, I feel for her. As to mak- 
ing love to her, I have not done it con- 
sciousl3^ But — we have been a great 
deal together ; and I fear Miss Cleeve 
must have read my heart, as — as — ” 

As what, Mr. Andinnian ? was 
the stern question. 

As I have read hers, I was going 
to presume to say,’^ replied Karl, his 
voice and e3’es alike drooping. 

Colonel Cleeve felt confounded. He 
would have called this the very hight 
of impudence, but that the young man 
standing before him was so indisput- 
ably refined, so modest, and spoke as 
though he were grieved to the heart. 

‘‘And, pray, what could you have 
promised 3^ourself b3’’ thus presuming 
to love m3’ daughter ? ” 

“ I promised myself nothing. On 
my word of honor as a gentleman, sir, 
I have not been holding out any kind 
of hopes or promises to myself. I be- 
lieve,’^ added the young man with the 
open candor so characteristic of him, 
“that I have been too happ3" in the 
present, in Miss Cleeve’s dail3’’ society 
— for hardly a day passed that we did 
not see each other — to cast so much as 
a thought to the future.^^ 

“ Well, sir, what excuse have 3’ou to 
make for this behavior ? Do you see 
its folly ? 

“ I see it now. I see it for the first 
time, Colonel Cleeve. For — I — sup- 


pose — you will not let me aspire to win 
her ? 

The words were given with slow 
deprecation : as if he hardl3'’ dared to 
speak them. 

“What do you think, 3^ourself, about 
it ? ” sharply asked the Colonel. “ Do 
you consider 3’ourself a suitable match 
for Miss Cleeve? In any way? In 
any way, Mr. Andinnian ? 

• “ I am afraid not, sir.” 

“ You are afraid not ! Good heav- 
ens! Your family — pardon me for 
alluding to it, Mr. Andinnian, but 
there are moments in a life-time, and 
this is one, when plain-speaking be- 
comes a necessity. Your family have 
but risen from the ranks, sir, as we 
soldiers say, and not much above the 
ranks either. Miss Cleeve is Miss 
Cleeve : my daughter, and a peer’s 
grand-daughter.” 

“ It is all true, sir.” 

“ So much for that unsuitability. 
x\nd then we come to means. What 
are 3^ours, Mr. Andinnian?” 

The young man lifted his head and 
his honest grey eyes to the half-affright- 
ed but generally calm face. He could 
but tell the truth at all times without 
equivocation. 

“I fear 3^00 will consider my means 
even more ineligible than my family,” 
he said. “ I have my pay and two 
hundred pounds a year. At my moth- 
ea’s death another two hundred a 3'ear 
will come to me.” 

Colonel Cleeve drew down his lips. 
“ And that is all — in the present and 
in the future ? ” 

“ All I can reckon upon with any 
certainty. When my brother shall 
succeed Sir Joseph Andinnian, he 
may do something more for me. 
M3^ father suggested it in his last testa- 
mentary paper : and I think he will 
do it: I believe he will. But of this 
I cannot be certain ; and in any case 
it may not be much.” 

Colonel Cleeve paused a moment. 
He wished the 3mung man would not 
be so straightforwardly candid, so trans- 
parently single-minded, putting him-/ 
self, as it were, in all honor in hid 
hands. It left the Colonel — the mild-/ 


LUCY CLEEVE. 


83 


est man in the world by nature — less 
loophole to get into a proper passion. 
In the midst of it all, he could not 
help liking the young fellow. 

]\[r. Andinnian, every word you 
say only makes the case worse. Two 
barriers, each in itself insurmountable, 
lie, by your own showing, between you 
and my daughter. The bare idea of 
making her your wife is an insult to 
her ; were it carried into a fact — I con- 
demn myself to speak of so impossible 
a thing unwillingly — it would blight 
her life and happiness for ever.’^ 

Ivarl’s pale face grew as red as his 
coat. “ These are harsh words, Col- 
onel Cleeve.’’ 

They are true ones, sir : and justi- 
fiable. Lucy has been reared in the 
notions befitting her rank. She has 
been taught to expect that when she 
marries her home will be at least as 
well-appointed as the one she is taken 
from. j\Iy son is a great expense to 
me, and my means are limited as com- 
pared with my .position — [ am plain 
with you, yon see, Mr. Andinnian ; 
you have been so with me — but still 
we live as our compeers live, and have 
things suitable about us. But — what 
you offer Lucy? — allowing that 
in point of family you were entitled to 
mate with her. Why, a lodging in a 
barracks, a necessity to tramp witli you 
after the regiment at home and abroad.’’ 

Karl stood silent, the pain of morti- 
fication on his closed lips. . Colonel 
Cleeve put the case rather extremely; 
but it was near the truth, after all. 

‘^And you would wish to bring this 
disgrace, this poverty, this blight on 
Lucy ! If you 




“ Ko, sir, I would not,” was the im- 
pulsive interruption. “ What do you 
take me for? Lucy’s happiness is a 
great deal dearer to me than my own.” 

“ If you have one spark of honor, 
IMr. Andinnian — and until now I be- 
lieved you had j’oiir full share of it — 
if you do care in eyer so small a degree 
for my daughter's comfort and her true 
welfare ; in short, if jmu are a man 
and a gentleman, you will aid me in 
striving to undo ^ie;'harm that has 

been done.” ' 

o 


I will strive to do what is best to 
be done,” ret>lied Karl, knowing the 
fiat that must come, and feeling that 
his heart was breaking. 

^Wery well. Our ac(]uaintance 
with you must close from this hour; 
and I must ask you to give me your 
word of honor never to attempt to 
hold future communication with my 
daughter in any vyay : n^ver to m:*et 
I her in society e.vefv if be possible 
j for you to stay awa'^ avoid it. In 
I future you and Mis/ Cleese afe stran- 


gers.” 


\ 


There was a dead silence^ Karl 
seemed to be looking at vaca'ncv over 
the Colonel’s head. 

“ You do not speak, Mr. Anjdi^nian. 

He roused himself with u sort of 
shudder. “ I believe I was lost in 
glancing at tlie blighted life will 

be. Colonel Cleeve.” And the Colonel, 
in spite of his self-interest, felt a kimi 
of pity for the feelings that he saw 
were stung to the quick. 

‘^Do you refuse to comply with my 
mandate?” 

‘^Ko, sir. Putting the affair before 
me in the light you have put it, no al- 
ternative is left me. I see, too, that, 
circumstanced as 1 am — and as she is 
— rny dream of love has been nothing 
but madness. On my word of honor, 
Colonel Cleeve, could 1 have looked at 
the matter at first as I look at it now, 
and foreseen that we were destined to— 
to care for each other, I would have 
flown ^liss Cleeve’s presence.” 

‘‘These regrets often come late in 
the day, Mr. Andinnian,” was the 
rather sarcastic answer. ‘‘ Then I 
may rely on your honor?” 

“ You may indeed, sir. But that I 
see how right and reasonable your fiat 
is; how essential for Lucy’s sake, I 
‘could hardly have complied with it; 
for to part with her will be rending 
myself from every joy of life. 1 give 
you my sacred word of honor that I will 
not henceforth attempt to hold com- 
munication of any kind with her: I 
will not meet her if I can avoid it. 
That I should live to say this calmly I ” 
added Karl to himself. 

“ I expected no less from you, Mr. 




84 


WIT ITT X THE MAZE. 


Andinnian/’ spoke tlie Colonel, stiffly 
but Courteously. ‘‘ I am bound to say 
that you have met this lamentable affair 
in a ['roper spirit. I see I may rely 
upon you.’’ 

Toil may rely upon me as yon 
would rely upon yourself,” said the 
young officer earnestly. “ Should the 
time ever come that my fortunes as- 
cend — it seems next door to an impos- 
sibility now, hut such things have been 
heard of — and Lucy be still free ” 

“That could make no alteration : 
want of fortune is not the only bar,” 
ham_;htily interrupted Colonel Cleeve. 
“ The present is enough for us, Mr. 
Andinnian: let us leave the future.” 

“True. The present is greatl}^ 
enough ; and I beg jmur pardon. Colo- 
nel Cleeve. I will keep my word both 
in the spirit and the letter. And now, I 
would make one recfuest to you, sir — 
that yon will allow me to see Lucy for 
an instant before we finally part.” 

“ That you may gain some foolish 
promise from her, — of waiting, or some- 
tiiing of that kind!”- was the angry 
rejoinder. 

“ I told you that 3^11 might rel^" upon 
me,” replied Karl with sad emphasis. 
“ Colonel Cleeve, don’t 3’ou see what a 
bitter blow this is to me?” he burst 
forth, with an emotion he had not be- 
traj'ed throughout the interview. “ It 
may be bitter to Lucy also. Let us 
sa}' a word of good-h^’e to each other 
for the last time.” 

Colonel Cleeve hardly knew what to 
be at. lie did not like to sa^^ Xo ; he 
did not like to say Yes. That it was 
bitter to one,' he saw; that it might he 
bitter to the other, he quite believed : 
and he had a soft place in his heart. 

“I will trust you in this as I trust 
^mu in the other, Mr. Andinnian. It 
must be good-hje onl^q you under- 
stand : and a brief one.” 

He quitted the room, and sent Lucy 
in. Almost better for them both that 
he had not done so — for these partings 
are nearlv as bad as death. To them 
both this severing asumler for all time 
seemed worse than death. Lucv, look- 
ing quiet and simple in her colored 
muslin, stood shivering. 


“ I could not depart without begging 
you to forgive me, Lucy,” he said, his 
tone less firm than usual with emotion 
and pain. “ I ought to have exercised 
more thought ; to have foreseen what 
must be the inevitable ending. Colo- 
nel Cleeve has my promise that I will 
never again seek yon in any way : that 
from henceforth we shall be as stran- 
gers. Oh my darling ! — I ma}^ surely 
call you so in this last hour ! — this is 
painful I fear to you as to me.” 

She went quite close to him, lier 
eyes cast up to his with a piteous 
mourning in their depths; eyes too sad 
for tears. 

“ They have told me the same, Karl. 
There is no hope at all for us. But I 
— I wish in my turn to say something 
to yon. Karl” — and her voice sank 
to a whisper, and she put out her hand 
as if inviting him to take it — “I shall 
never forget yon ; I shall never care 
for you less than I do now.” 

He did not take her hand. He took 
her. Almost beside himself with the 
bitter pain, Karl Andinnian so far for- 
got himself as to clasp this .young girl 
to his heart : as to rain down on her 
face sweet and sad kisses from his lips. 
Luc}^ was never quite sure, then or in 
after life, that she did not, by one, re- 
turn them. But he remembered his 
promise to Colonel Cleeve, and said 
never a word of hope for the future. 

“ Forgive me, Lucy ; this and all. 
Perhaps Colonel Cleeve would hardly 
grudge it to us when it is to be our 
last meeting on earth.” 

“ In the years to come,” she sobbed, 
her face l^dng contentedly under his 
wet tears, “ when we shall he an 
old man and woman, they may let us 
meet again. Oh, Karl, .yes ! and we 
can talk together of that best worhl, 
Heaven, where there will be no separa- 
tion. We shall be drawing near its 
gates then looking out for it.” 

A slight ta[) at the door, and iMiss 
Blake entered. She had come to sum- 
mon Lucy. Seeing what she did see — 
the tears, the emotion, the intertwined 
hands, IMiss Blake looked — looked very 
grim and stately. 

“ Lucy, Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve 


LUCY CLEEVE. 


35 


have sent me to request you to go to 

God bless you, Lucy,’’ he whis- 
pered. God bless you, my best and 
dearest. Good-bye, for ever.” 

With what seemed a cool bow to 
Miss Blake and never a word, for in 
truth he was unequal to speaking it. 
Lieutenant Andinnian passed into the 
hall, caught up his hat and sword that 
he had left there, and let himself out, 
buckling on the latter. Lucy had her 
hands to her face, hiding it. Miss 
Blake waited. 

My dear Lucy, w'hat am I to say? ” 

‘‘ Tell them that I wish to stay here 
alone for a few minutes. Tell them 
that Mr. Andinnian is gone.” 

Miss Blake, her hard, thin lips com- 
pressed with the cruellest pain woman 
can ever feel, took her way back again. 
Only herself knew, or ever would know, 
wdiat this dreadful blow was to her — 
the finding that she had been mistaken 
in Karl Andinnian’s love. For anguish 
such as this women have lost life. One 
small drop taken from the bitterness 
was — to know that he and his true love 
had bidden each other adieu for ever. 

‘^Perhaps, in a few weeks, or months 
to come, when he shall have recovered 
his folly — he and I ma}^ be friends 
again,” she murmured, ’‘Nay — who 
knows — may even become something 
warmer and dearer : his feeling for that 
child can only be a passing fancy. 
Something warmer and dearer,” re- 
peated Miss Blake. 

“ Lucy will come to you presently, 
Mrs. Cleeve. There’s no hurry now : 
Mr. Andinnian is gone.” 

What is Lucy doing, Theresa ? ” 

Sobbing silently, I think: she 
scarcely spoke to me. Fancy her being 
so foolish !” 

Mrs." Cleeve went at once to the 
library. She and her husband were as 
much alike as possible: mild, good, 
unemotional people who hated to inflict 
pain : with a great love for their 
daughter, and a very great sense of 
their own importance and position in 
the world, as regarded pride of birth. 

Oh, Lucy dear, it was obliged to 
be. Y^ou are reasonable, and must 


know it was. But from my very heart 
I am sorry for you : and I shall take 
blame to myself always for not having 
been more cautious than to allow 3’’oa 
to become intimate with Mr. Andin- 
nian. It seems to me as though I had 
been living with a veil before my 
eyes.” 

It is over now : let it pass,” was 
Lucy’s faint answer. 

Yes, dear, it is over. All over for 
good. By this time twelve-month, 
Lucy, I hope j’ou will be happily 
married, and forget this painful episode 
in 3’our life. Kot, my child, that we 
shall like to part with 3mu : only — it 
will be for vmur own welfare and happi- 
ness.” 

Lucy pressed her slender white 
fingers upon her brow, and looked at 
her mother. There was a puzzled, 
doubting expression in her 03^68 that 
spoke of bewilderment. 

“ Mamma,” she said slowly, I 
think perhaps I did not understand 
you. I have parted \vith Mr. Andin- 
nian, as 3mu and papa wished, and as 
— as I suppose it was right I should 
do ; I shall never, I hope, do an3’thing 
against 3mur will. But — to tiy to 
make me marr3’’ will be quite a differ- 
ent thing. Were 3^11 and p^T-p^** to tell 
me that 3^11 insisted on it, I could only 
resist. And I should resist to the 
end.” 

Mrs. Cleeve saw that she had not 
been wise. To allude to this when 
Luc 3^ was smarting under the immedi- 
ate pain of separation, was a mistake. 
Sighing gentl3", she sat down and took 
her daughter’s hand, stroking it fondly. 

“ Luc 3’, my dear, I will relate to 3^11 
a little matter of 1113^ own early experi- 
ence,” she began in a hushed tone. 
“ 1 once had one of the atfairs of the 
heart, as the3’ are called. The young 
man was just as attractive as Mr. 
Andinnian, and quite worthy. But 
circumstances were unfavorable, and 
we had to part. I thought that all 
worth living for in life was over. I 
said that I should never care for any 
one else, and never marry. Not so 
very long afterwards. Captain Cleeve 
presented himself. Before he said a 


36 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 




^Yor(l to me. Lucy, before I knew wluit 
lie was tliiiiking of, I liad learnt to like 
and esteem him : and I became his 
wife.’’ 

‘•And did 3’ou love him?” ques- 
tioned Lucy, in great surprise. 

Oil dear, no. Not with the kind 
of love I had felt for another — the kind 
of love that I presume you are feeling 
for ^Ir. Andinnian. Such love never 
comes back to the heart a second time, i 
But, Lucy, mj- married life has been 
perfectly successful and happ}". Once 
that great passion is over, you see, the 
heart is at rest, calmness and reason 
have supervened. Bely upon it, my 
dear, your married life will he all the 
happier for this little experience con- 
nected with ]\Ir. Andinnian.” 

Luc 3^ said no more. She knew. 
And Mrs. Cleeve thought how dutiful 
lier daughter was. 

On the following day, a letter came 
to the Colonel from Karl. A well- 
written and sensible letter ; not of 
rebellion, hut of acquiescence. While 
it deplored his fate in separating from 
Lucy; it bowed to the necessity that 
enforced it. A note was enclosed for 
Lucy: it was unsealed, in case the 
Colonel should wish to read before 
giving it to her. The Colonel did so : 
he did not fear treason from Karl, but 
it was as well to be on the safe side and 
assure himself there was none. It 
contained only a few words, rather 
more coherent than Karl’s emotion cf 
the previous day had allowed him to 
speak : and it bade her adieu for ever. 
Colonel Cleeve sent both notes to his 
daughter, and then lost himself in a 
reverie; from which he was aroused by 
the entrance of his wife. 

“ Lucinda, that is really a most su- 
perior young man; high principled, 
true-hearted. A pity but he had rank 
and money.” 

Who is a superior young man ? ” 
asked Mrs. Cleeve, not having the clue. 

“ Lieutenant Andinnian.” 


CHAPTER TIL 

DOXE AT SUXSET. 

The warm June syn rode gaily in 
the bright-blue skies, and the sweet 
June roses were in bloom. IMrs. An- 
dinnian, entirely unconscious of the 
blight that had fallen on her 3munger 
son, was placidly making the home 
happiness (as she believed) of the elder. 
Mad she known of Karl’s sorrow, she 
would have given to it but a passing 
thought. 

There was peace in the home again. 
The vexation regarding their young 
lady-neighbor had subsided in iMrs. 
Andinnian’s mind. Siie had spoken 
seriously and 8 har})ly to Adam upon the 
point — which was an entirely new ele- 
ment in his experience; telling him 
how absurd and unsuitable it was, that 
he, one of England’s future baronets, 
and three-and-thirty years of age, al- 
read}^, should waste his hours in frivo- 
lous talk with a girl beneath him. 
Adam heard her in silence, smiling a 
little, and quite ch»cile. He rejoined in 
a joking tone. 

“All this means, I suppose, mother, 
that 3’ou would not tolerate Miss 
Turner as my wife ? ” 

“ Never, Adam, never. You would 
have to choose between mj'self and 
her. And I have been a loving 
mother to you.” 

“All right. Don’t worrj^ 3’ourself. 
There’s no cause for it.” 

From this time — it was in April, at 
the close of Karl’s short visit to them 
— the trouble ceased. Adam Andin- 
nian either did not meet the girl so 
much ; or else he timed his interviews 
more cautiously. In May Miss Turn- 
er went away on a visit: and ]\Irs. 
Andinnian forgot that she had ever 
been anxious. 

Never a word of invitation had 
come from Sir Jose])h. ’During this 
same month, ]\lay, Mrs. Andinnian, 
her patienca worn out, wrote to Fox- 
wood, proffering a visit for herself and 
Adam. At the end of a fortnight’s 
time, she got an answer. A few words 
of shaky writing, in Sir Joseph’s own 


DONE AT SUNSET. 


37 


Iiand. He had been very ill, he told 
her, whicdi was the cause of the delay, 
as he wished to reply himself. Now 
he was somewhat better, and gaining 
strength. When able to entertain her 
and her son — which he hoped would be 
soon — he should write for them. It 
would give him great pleasure to re- 
ceive tliem, and to make the acquaint- 
ance of his heir. 

That letter had reached Mrs. Andin- 
nian the first day of June. Some 
three weeks had elapsed since, and no 
summons had come. She was grow- 
ing just a little impatient again. 
Morning after morning, while she 
dressed, the question always crossed 
her mind: will there be a letter to- 
day from Eoxwood ? On this lovely 
June morning, with the scent of the 
inidsumiiier flowers wafting in through 
the open chamber window, it filled her 
mind as usual. 

They breakfasted early. Adam’s 
active garden habits induced it. 
When Mrs. Andinnian descended, he 
was in the break fast- room, scanning 
the pages of some new work on horti- 
culture. He wore a tasty suit of grejq 
and looked well and handsome: unus- 
ually so in his mother’s eyes, for he 
had only returned the past evening 
from a few da^^s’ roving absence. 

Good morning, Adam.” 

He advanced to kiss his mother : 
his white teeth and gray eyes as beau- 
tiful as they well could be. Mrs. An- 
dinnian’s fond and admiring- heart 
leaped u[> with a bound. 

The nonsense people write whose 
knowledge is superficial!” he said, 
with a gay laugh. 1 have detected 
half a dozen errors in this book al- 
ready.’^ 

“No doubt. What a nice morning 
it is.” 

‘^Lovely. It is Midsummer Eve. 
I have been out at work these two 
hours.” ^ 

“Adam, I think that must be the 
postman’s step,” she observed. “ Some 
one is going round to the door.” 

“ From Karl, perhaps,” he said with 
indifference, for he had plunged into 
his book again. 

Hewitt came in • one letter only on 


the silver w^aiter. He presented it to 
his master. Adam, absorbed in his 
pages, took the letter and laid it on 
the table without looking up. Some- 
thing very like a cry from his mother 
startled him. She had caught up the 
letter and was gazing at the address. 
For it was one that had never before 
been seen there. 

“ Sir Adam Andinnian, Bart.” 

“Oh m}' son ! It has come at last.” 

W/iat has come?” cried he, in sur- 
prise. “Oh, I see : — Sir Joseph must 
be dead. Poor old fellow ! What a 
sad thing ! ” 

But it was not exactly Sir Joseph’s 
death that Mrs. Andinnian had been 
thinking of. The letter ran as follows : 

“ Fox WOOD, June 22d, 

“Dear Sir, — I am truly sorry to 
have to inform you of the death of my 
old friend and many years’ patient. Sir 
Joseph Andinnian. He had been get- 
ting better slowly, but we thought 
surely ; and his death at the last was 
sudden and quite unexpected. I have 
taken upon myself to give a few neces- 
sary orders in anticipation of your ar- 
rival here. 

“ I am. Sir Adam, very sincerely 
yours, William Moore. 

Sir Adam Andinniax. 

The breakfast went on nearly in 
silence. Mrs. Andinnian was deep in 
thoughts and plans. Sir Adam, poring, 
over his book while he ate, did not 
seem to be at all impressed with the 
importance of having gained a handle 
to his name. 

“When shall you start, Adam ? ” 

“ Start ? ” he returned, glancing up. 
“For Foxwood? Oh, in a day or 
two.” 

“/tz, a day or two!^' repeated his 
mother, with surprised emphasis. 
“ Why, what do you mean ? ” 

“ Just that, mother.” 

“You should be oft* in half an hour. 
You must, Adam.” 

“Not I. There’s no need of hurry,” 
he added, with careless good humor. 

“ Hut there is need of it,” she an- 
swered. 

“ Why ? Had Sir Joseph been dy- 


88 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


ing and wished to see me, Ed not have 
lost a single moment : but it is noth- 
ing of the kind, poor man. He is 
dead, unfortunately : and therefore no 
cause for haste exists.’’ 

“Some one ought to he there.” 

“Not at all. The Mr. IMoore who 
writes — some good old village doctor, I 
conclude — will see to things.” 

“ But whj" should you not go at 
once, Adam ? ” she persisted. “ What 
is preventing you ? ” 

“Nothing prevents me. Except 
that I hate to be hurried off anywhere. 
And I — I only came back to the gar- 
den yesterday.’^ 

“ The garden ! — that’s what it is,” 
resentfully thought Mrs. Andinnian. 

“Adam, if 3’ou do not go, I shall.” 

“Do, mother,” he said, readily. 
“ Go, if you like, and take Hewitt. I 
hate details of all kinds, you know; 
and if you will go, and take them on 
yourself, I shall be truly obliged. 
W rite me word which da}" the funeral 
is fixed for, and I will come for it.” 

Perhaps in all her life Mrs. An- 
dinnian had never resented anj^thing 
in her favorite son as she was resent- 
ing this. She had looked forward to 
this accession of fortune with an eager 
anxiety which none could suspect: and 
now that it was come, he was treating 
it with this indifference ! a 

time and oft had she indulged a vision 
of the da}" wdien she should drive in to 
take possession of Fox wood, her hand- 
some son, the inheritor, seated beside 
her. 

“ One of my sons ought to be there,” 
she said, coldly. “ If you will not go, 
Adam, I shall telegraph to Karl.” 

“ I will telegraph for you,” he re- 
plied, with provoking good -humor. 
“ Karl w’ill be the very fellow : he has 
ten times the head for business that I 
have. Let him act for me in all things 
exactly as though it were he who had 
succeeded : I give him carte blanche. 
It will save all trouble to you.” 

Sir Adam Andinnian declined to be 
shaken out of his resolve and his inert- 
ness. In what might be called a tem- 
per, Mrs. Andinnian departed straight 
from the breakfast table to the railway 


station to take the train. Her son 
duly accompanied her to see her safely 
away : she had refused to take Hewitt : 
and then he despatched a telegram to 
Karl, telling him to join his mother at 
Foxwood. Meantime, while these, the 
lady and the message, went speeding 
on their respective ways, the new bar- 
onet beguiled away the day’s passing 
hours amidst his flowers, and shot a 
few small birds that were interfering 
with some choice seedlings just spring- 
ing up. 

Lieutenant Andinnian received the 
message promptly. But, following the 
fashion much in vogue amidst tele- 
graphic messages, it was not quite as 
clear as daylight. Karl read that Sir 
Joseph was dead, that his mother was 
either going or gone to Foxwood ; that 
she was waiting for him, and he was 
to join her without delay. But wheth- 
er he was to join her at her own home 
and accompany her to Foxwood, or 
whether he was to proceed direct to 
Foxwood, lay in profound obscurity. 
The fault was not in Sir Adam’s word- 
ing; but in the telegraph people’s care- 
lessness. ) 

“Now which is it that I am to do? ” 
debated Karl, puzzling over the sprawl- 
ing words from divers points of view. 
They did not help him : and he decid- 
ed to proceed home; he thought his 
mother must be waiting for him there. 
“ It must be that,” he said: “'Adam 
has gone hastening on to Foxwood, 
and the mother is staying for me to 
accompany her. Poor uncle Joseph! 
And to think that I never once saw 
him in life 1 ” 

Mr. Andinnian had no difficulty in 
obtaining leave of absence : and he 
started on his journey. He was some- 
what changed. Though only a month 
had gone by since the severance from 
Lucy Cleeve, the anguish had told up- 
on him. His brother officers, noting 
the sad abstraction he was frequently 
plunged in, the ultra-strict fultilment 
of his duties, as if life were made up 
of parades and drill and all the rest of 
it, told him in joke that he was going 
into a bad way. They knew nought 


DONE AT SUNSET. 


S9 


of what had happened : of tlie fresh 
spring love tliat had made liis lieart 
and this earth alike a paradise, or of 
its abrupt ending. “My poor horse 
lias had to be shot, you know — which 
was a fact ; “and I can’t forget him,^’ 
Mr. Andinnian one day replied, recip- 
rocating the joke. 

Tlie shades of midsummer night 
were gathering as Karl neared the 
liouse of his mother, ife walked up 
from the terminus, choosing the field- 
path, and leaving his portmanteau to 
be sent after him. The glowing fires 
of the departed sun had left the west, 
but streaks of gold where he had set 
illumined the heavens. The air was 
still and soft, the night balmy; some 
stars flickered in the calm blue firma- 
ment: the moon was well above the 
horizon. This pathway over the fields 
ran parallel with the high road. As 
Mr. Andinnian paced it, his umbrella 
in his hand, there suddenly broke upon 
his ears a kind of uproar, marring 
strangely the peaceful stillness of the 
night. Some stirring commotion, as 
of a mass of people, seemed to be ap- 
proaching. 

“What is it, I wonder?’^ he said 
to himself: and for a moment or two 
he halted and stared over the border 
of the field and the intervening hedge 
beyond. By what his sight could 
make out, he thought some policemen 
were in front, walking with measured 
tread, and a coii fused mob behind, fol- 
lowing close on their heels : but it was 
too uncertain a light to show this dis- 
tinctly. 

Some poor prisoner they are bring- 
ing in from the country,’’ thought Mr. 
Andinnian, as the commotion passed 
on towards the town, and he continued 
bis way. 

“ Tins is a true Midsummer Eve 
night,” he said to himself, when the 
hum of the noise and the tramping 
liad died away, and he glanced at the 
weird shadows that stood out from 
Ledges and trees. “Just the night for 

ghosts to come abroad, and Stay, 

though: it is noton Midsummer Eve 
that ghosts come, I think. AVhat is 
• the popular superstition for tlie night? 


Young girls go out and see the shad- 
owy forms of their future husbands ? 
Is that it? I don’t remember. What 
matter if I did ? Such romance has 
died out for me.” 

He drew near his liome. On the 
left lay the cottage of Mr. Turner. Its 
inmates seemed to be unusually astir 
within it, for lights shone from nearly 
every window. A few yards further 
Karl turned into his mother’s grounds 
by a private gate. 

Their own house looked, on the con- 
trary, all dark. Karl could not see that 
so mucdi as the hall-lamp was lighted. 
A sudden conviction fl ished over him 
that he was wrong, after all that it was 
to Foxwood he ought to have gone. 

“ My mother and Adam and all the 
world are off to it, no doubt,” he said, 
as he looked up at the dark windows, 
after knocking at the door. “'Deuce 
take the telegraph ! ” 

The door was opened by Hewitt: 
Hewitt with a candle in his hand. 
That is, tlie door was drawn a few 
inches back, and the man’s face ap- 
peared in the aperture. Karl was 
seized with a sudden panic : for he 
had never seen, in all his life, a face 
blanched as that was, or one so full of 
horror. 

“ What is the matter ? ” he involun- 
tarily exclaimed, under his breath. 

Ay, what was the matter? Hewitt, 
the faithful serving man of many years, 
threw up his hands when he saw Karl, 
and cried out aloud before he told it. 
His master. Sir Adam, had shot Mar- 
tin Scott. 

Karl Andinnian stood against the 
door-post inside as he listened ; stood 
like one bereft of motion. For a mo- 
ment he could put no questions: but 
it crossed his mind that Hewitt must 
be mad and was telling some fable of 
an excited brain. 

Not so. It was all too true. Adam 
Andinnian had deliberately shot the 
young medical student, Martin Scott. 
And Hewitt, poor Hewitt, had been a 
witness to the deed. 

“ Is he dead ? ” gasped Karl ; and it 
was the first word he spoke. 

“ Stone dead, sir. The shot entered 


40 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


his heart. ’Twas done at sunset. He 
\vas carried into Mr. Turner^s place, 
and is lyinjj: tliere.*’ 

A confused reineinhrance of the 
licrjits lie had seen arose to KaiTs agi- 
tated brain. He press<^d' his hand on 
his brow and stared at Hewitt. For a 
moment or two, he thought he himself 
must be going mad. 

‘•And where is he, my brother?’’ 
“The police have taken him away, 
!Mr. Karl. Two of them happened to 
be passing just at the time.” 

xVnd Karl knew that the prisoner he 
liad met in custodj^, with the guardians 
of the law around and the trailing 
mob behind, was his brother, Sir Adam 
Andiiinian. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE TRIAL. 

Tiik unfortunate act committed by 
Adam Andinnian (some people said it 
must have been an accident) was bruit- 
ed abroad far and wide. Circumstances 
conspired to give to it an unusual no- 
toriety ; and for more, than the tradi- 
i tional nine days it remained a wonder 

in men’s minds. Sir Adam’s recent 
accession to the family honors; the ut- 
ter want of adequate motive; the name 
the young lady said to be mixed up 
with it : all this tended to arouse the 
public interest. That a gentleman of 
peaceful tendencies, an educated man 
and new baroimt of the realm should 
take up his gun and shoot another in 
calm deliberation, was well nigh incred- 
ible. Public interest was not allowed 
to flag. Before a sufBcient space of 
time had elapsed for that, the trial 
came on. 

Sir Adam Andinnian was not fated, 
as too many prisoners are, to languish 
out months of suspense in prison. The 
calamity occurred towards the end of 
June; the assizes were held in July. 
Almost before his final exam.i nation by 
the magistrates had concluded, or the 
coroner’s inquest ([irotracted after the 
fashion of inquests, but in this case 
without any sufficient reason) had re- 


turned its verdict, the summer assizes 
were upon the c'ounty. The magis- 
trates had committed Sir Adam Andin- 
niau to take his trial for wilful murder; 
the coroner’s jury for manslaughter. 

But now — what effect does the read- 
er suppose this most awful blow must 
liave had on Mrs. Andinnian ? If any 
one ever deserved commiseration it was 
surely she. To every mother it would 
have been terrible ; to her it was worse 
than terrible. She loved her son with 
the love only lavished on an idol ; she 
had gone forth to his new inheritance 
in all the pride of her fond heart, 
counting every day, ay, and every hour, 
until he should gladden it with Ids 
presen(;e. If one mortal man stood on 
a pinnacle just then above all his fel- 
lows in her estimation, that man was 
her handsome son, the new baronet. 
Sir Adam Andinnian. And oh ! the 
desolation that fell upon her when the 
son for whom she 'cared not, Karl, ar- 
rived to break the news. 

And Karl ? Hardly less keen, if 
any, was the blow upon him. Until 
then, he did not know how very warm 
and true was his • affection for his 
brother. Staggering back to the town 
the same night after his interview with 
Hewitt — and it seemed to Karl Andin- 
nian that he did stagger, under the 
weight of his affliction — he found the 
prisoner at the police station, and was 
allowed to see him. Adam did not 
appear to feel his position at all. Karl 
thought the passion — or whatever other 
ill feeling it might have been that 
prompted him to the fatal deed — was 
swajdng him still. He was perfectly 
calm and self-possessed, and sat quite 
at ease while the chief of the station 
took down sundry reports in writing 
from the policemen who brought the 
prisoner in. 

“ 1 have done nothing that I regret,” 
he said to Karl. ‘‘ The man has but 
got his deserts. 1 should do it again 
to-morrow under the same provocation.” 

“ But, Adam, think of the conse- 
quences to yourself,” gasped Karl, 
aghast with dismay at this dangerous 
admission in the hearing of the officers. 

Oh, as to the consequences, I shall 




THE TRIAL. 


41 


he quite ready to take theyn,'^ returned 
the prisoner, drawing himself haughti- 
ly up. “I never yet did aught that I 
was ashamed to acknowledge after- 
wards.” 

Tile Inspector ceased writing for a 
moment and turned round. ^^Sir Adam 
Andinniaii, I advise jmu for your own 
sake to be silent. Least said is soonest 
mended^ you know, sir. That’s a good 
rule to remember in all cases.” 

Very good indeed, Wall,” readily 
assented Sir Adam — who had previous- 
ly been on speaking terms with the 
Inspector. ‘‘ But if you think I am 
going to try to disown what I’ve done, 
you are mistaken.” 

It must have been an accident,” 
spoke poor Karl in a low tone, almost 
as though he were suggesting it. ‘‘ I 
told Hewitt so.” 

‘Hlewitt knows better: he saw me 
take up the gun, level it, and shoot 
him,” was the reply of Sir Adam, as- 
serted openly. “ Look here. Wall. 
The fellow courted his fate ; courted it. 
I had assured him that if he dared to 
odend in a certain way again, I would 
shoot him as I’d shoot a dog. He set 
me at defiance and did it. Upon that, 
I carried out 1113’ promise, and shot him. 
I could not break 1113^ word, 3mu know.” 

Just then a doubt crossed the In- 
spector’s mind — as he related after- 
wards — that Sir Adam Andinniaii was 
not in his right senses. 

x\nd the mother? ” breathed Karl. 
There's the worst of it,” returned 
Sir Adam, his tone quickly changing 
to grave concern. ‘‘For her sake, I 
could almost regret it. You must go 
off to Foxwood, Karl, and break it to 
lier.” 

What a task it was ! Kever in all 
•Karl’s life had one like unto it been 
imposed upon him. With the earl3^ 
morning he started for Foxwood : and 
it seemed to him that he would rather 
have started to his grave. 

It was perhaps somewhat singular 
that during the short period of time 
intervening before the trial. Lieuten- 
ant Andinnian should have been 
gazetted to his com pan}". It gave 
Karl no pleasure. The rise he had 


hoped for, that was to have brought 
him so much satisfaction, could but be 
productive of pain now. If the trial 
resulted in the awful sentence — Oon- 
demnation — Karl would not of course 
continue in the army. Ko, nor with 
any inferior result ; save and excout 
acquittal. Karl felt this. It was a 
matter that admitted of no alternative. 

To remain one amidst his fellow offi- 
cers with his only brother disgraced 
and punished, was not to be thought 
of. And Karl would rather have re- 
mained the nameless lieutenant than 
have been gazetted captain. 

The truest sympath3^ was felt for 
him, the utmost consideration evinced. 
Leave of absence was accorded him at 
his request, until the result of the 
trial should be known. He wanted 
his libert3" stand l.yy his brother, 
and to make efforts for the defence. 
Make efforts! When the accused 
persisted in openly avowing he was 
guilty, what efforts could be made 
with any hope of success ? 

One of the hottest days that July 
has ever given us was tliat of the trial. 
The county town was filled from en<l 
to end : thousands of curious people 
had thronged in, hoping to get a place 
in court ; or, at least, to obtain a sight 
of the baronet- prisoner. It was re- 
ported that but for the earnest plead- 
ings of his mother there would ha#0 
been no trial — Sir Adam would ha\A 
pleaded guilty. It was whispered that 
she, the hitherto proud, overbearing, 
self-contained woman, went down on 
her knees to entreat him not to bring ^ 
upon his head the worst and most ex- 
treme sentence known to England’s 
law — as the said pleading guilt}" would 
have brought — l)ut to give himself a 
chance of a more lenient sentence: 
perhaps of an acquittal. It was said 
that (kiptain Andinnian would have 
taken his place in the dock to counte- 
nance and stand b}^ his brother, but 
was not permitted. 

The trial was unusually short and 
unusually interesting. Immediately 
after the judge had taken his seat in 
the morning, tlie prisoner was brought 
in. The crowded court, who had just 


42 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


risen to Jo homacco to tlie juJc^e, rose 
ajxain amidst stir and excitement. 
Strangers, straining their eager eyes, 
saw, perhaps witli a momentary feeling 
of surprise, as grand a gentleman as 
any present. A tall, commanding, 
hamisome man, with a frank expres- 
sion of countenance when he smiled, 
but haughty in repose ; his white 
teeth, that he showed so much, and 
Ids grey eyes quite beautiful. He 
wore deep mourning for his uncle, Sir 
Joseph ; and bowed to the judge with 
as inu(‘h stately ceremonj" as though 
lie were bowing before the Queen. 
Captain Andinnian, in deep mourning 
also, sat at the table with the solicit- 
ors. 

The chief witnesses, it may be said 
the only ones of consequence, were 
Thomas Hewitt the man servant, and 
IMiss Hose Turner. A surgeon spoke 
to the cause of death — a shot through 
the heart — and a policeman or two 
gave some little evidence. Altogether 
not much. The story that came out 
to the world through the speeches of 
counsel, including those for the defence 
as well as for the prosecution, may be 
summed up as follows. 

Mr. Andinnian (now Sir Adam) liad 
a great friendship for a ^mung lady 
neighbor who lived close by, witli 
whom he and his mother had been in- 
timate, and for whose best interests he 
liaJ a lively regard. This was a iMiss 
It )se Turner : a young lady (the 
counsel emphatically said) worthy of 
every consideration, and against whom 
not a breath of slight had been, or 
could be wliispered. Some few 
months ago jMiss Turner was intro- 
duced at a friend’s house to a medical 
student (the deceased) named Martin 
Scott. It had been ascertained, from 
in(]uiries set on foot since Martin | 
Scott’s death, that this man’s private 
pursuits and character were not at all 
reputable : but that was of course (the 
Ccuinsel candidly added) no reason why 
lie should have been killed. In spite 
of Miss Turner’s strong objection, 
IMartin Siuitt persisted in offering her 
liis attentions, and two or three times, 
to the young lady’s great disgust, he 


hail forcibly^ kissed her. These facts 
became known to Mr. Andinnian : 
and he, being of a hasty, passionate 
nature, unfortunately took up the 
matter warmly. Indignant that the 
young lady should have been subject- 
ed to anything so degrading, he 
sought an interview with the offender, 
and told him that if ever he dared to 
repeat the insult to jMiss Turner, he, 
i\Ir. Andinnian, would shoot him. It 
appeared, the counsel added, that i\Ir. 
Andinnian avowed this in unmistak- 
able terms ; that the unfortunate de- 
ceased fully understood him to mean 
it, and that Mr. Andinnian would cer- 
tainly do what he said if provoked. 
Proof of which would be given. In 
spite of all this, Martin Scott braved 
his fate the instant he had an oppor- 
tunity. On the fatal evening, June 
the twent^’-third. Miss Turner having 
only just returned home from an ab- 
sence of some weeks, iMartin Scott 
made his appearance at her uncle’s 
house, followed her into the garden, 
and there, within sight of Mr. Andin- 
nian (or, rather, Sir Adam Andinnian, 
for he had then succeeded to his title, 
said the counsel, stopping to correct 
himself) he rudely took the young 
lad}^ in his arms, and kissed her sev- 
eral times. Miss Turner, naturally 
startled and indignant, broke from 
him, and burst into a fit of hysterical 
sobs. Upon this, the prisoner caught 
up his loaded gun and shot him dead : 
the gun, unhappily, lying close to his 
hand, for he had been shooting birds 
during the day. Such was the sub- 
stance of the story, as told to the 
court. 

Thomas Hewitt, the faithful serving 
man, who deposed that he had lived in 
the Andinnian family for mau}^ years, 
I and who could hardly speak for the 
grief witliin him, was examined. 
Alas ! he was called for the prosecution : 
for all his evidence told against his 
master, not for him. 

“That evening,” he said, “about 
eight o’clock, or from tliat to half }>ast, 
I had occasion to see my master, Sir 
Adam, ami went across the garden and 
beyond the sliriMbery of trees to liud 


THE TRIAL. 


him. He was standing by the gate 
that divides his grounds from Mr. 
Turner’s : and all in the same moment, 
as I came in view, there seemed to be 
a scuffle going on in Mr. Turner’s 
w’ide path by the rose-bushes. J ust at 
first I did not discern who it was there, 
for the setting sun, then going below the 
horizon, shone in my face like a ball 
of red fire. I soon saw it was Miss 
Turner and Martin Scott. He seemed 
to be holding her against her will. 
She broke awa}’’ from him, crying and 
sobbing, and ran towards my master, 
as if wanting him to protect her.’^ 

Well ? — go on,’^ cried the examin- 
ing counsel, for the witness had stopped. 
“What did you see next ? 

“Sir Adam caught up his gun from 
the garden seat close by, where it was 
Ijfing, presented it at Martin Scott, 
and fired. The young man sprang up 
into the air a foot or two, and then fell. 
It all passed in a moment. I ran to 
assist him, and found he was dead. 
That is all I know.’^ 

But the witness was not to be releas- 
ed just yet, in spite of this intimation. 
“Wait a bit/’ said the counsel for the 
prosecution. “ You saw the prisoner 
take up the gun, point it at the deceas- 
ed, and fire. Was all this done delib- 
erately ? ” 

It was not done hurriedly, sir.” 

Answer my question, witness. 
W^as it deliberately done ?” 

“ I think it was. His movements 
were slow. Perhaps, “ added v poor 
Hewitt, willing to suggest a loophole of 
escape for his master, “ perhaps Sir 
Adam had forgotten the gun was load- 
ed, and only fired it off to frighten 
Scott. It was in the morning he had 
been shooting the birds : hours before : 
he could easily have forgotten that it 
w^as loaded. M}^ mast^ is not a cruel 
man, but a humane one.” 

“ How came he to leave the gun 
out there for so many hours, if he had 
done with it ?” asked the judge. 

“ I don’t know, my lord. I sup- 
pose he forgot to bring it in when he 
came into dinner. Sir Adam is natu- 
rally very careless indeed.” 

One of the jury “Spoke. “ Witness^ j 


43 

what was it that you wanted with him 
when you went out that evening ? ” 

“ A telegram had come for him, sir, 
and I went to take it to him.” 

“ What did the telegram contain ? 
Do you know ? ” « 

“ I believe it came from Boxwood, 
sir.” 

“ From Boxwood ? ” 

“ The telegram was from my mother, 
Mrs. Andinnian,” spoke up the pris- 
oner, in his rather loud, but perfectl}- 
calm voice, thereby electrifying the 
court. “It was to tell me she had ar- 
rived safely at Boxwood Court : and that 
the day for my uncle Sir Joseph’s fune- 
ral was not then fixed.” 

The prisoner’s solicitor, in a great 
commotion, leaned over and begged 
him in a whisper to be silent. 

“ Nay,” said the prisoner aloud, “ if 
any information that I can give is re- ' 
quired, why should I be silent?” 
Surelj^ there had never before been a 
prisoner like unto this one ! 

The next witness was Rose Turner. 
She was accompanied by her uncle and 
a solicitor ; was dressed handsomel}" in 
black, and appeared to be in a state of 
extreme nervous agitation. Her face 
was ashy pale, her manner shrinkingly 
reluctant, and her voice was so low 
that its accents could not alwa^’s be 
caught. In the simple matter of giv- 
ing her name, she had to be asked it 
three times. Her evidence told little 
more than had been told by the open- 
ing counsel. 

Mr. Scott had persecuted her with 
his attentions, she said. He wanted 
her to promise to marry him when he 
should be established in practice, but 
she wholly refused, and she begged him 
to go about his business and leave her 
alone. He would not; and her aunt 
had rather encouraged Mr. Scott : 
they did not know what kind of pri- 
vate character he bore, but supposed of 
course it was good. jMartin Scott had 
twice kissed her against her will, very 
much to her own annoyance ; she hail 
told Mr. Andinnian of it — who had 
always been very kind to her, quite like 
a protector. It made iMr. Andinnian 
very angry : and he had then threatened 


44 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


IMartin S<'ott that if be ever again at- 
tempted to molest her, he would shoot 
him. She was sure that iVIartin Scott 
understood that jMr. Andiiinian was 
not joking, but meant to do what he 
said. So far, the witness spoke with 
tolerable readiness : but after this not a 
word would she say that was not drawn 
from her. 

You went out on a visit in May: 
where was it to?’’ questioned the 
counsel. 

“ Hirmingham.’’ 

How long did 3*011 stay there ? ” 

I was awaj^ from home live weeks 
altogether. 

“ When did you return home ? — 
Y'ou must speak a little louder, if 
3’ou please.” ’ 

^W)n the evening of the twentj*- 
second of June.” 

“ That was the day before the mur- 
der ? ” 

It was not a murder,” returned 
the witness, with emotion. “ Sir Adam 
Andinnian was quite justified in what 
he did.” 

The judge interposed. ^^You are 
not liere to state opinions, jmung lad3’’, 
but to answer questions.” The coun- 
sel resumed. 

Did the deceased, Martin Scott, 
come to your uncle’s residence on the 
evening of the twentj^-third ? ” 

Yes. jM}* uncle was at home, ill, 
that evening, and he kept Mr. Scott in 
conversation, so that he had no oppor- 
tunity of teasing me.” 

‘‘ You went, later, into the garden ? ” 

Yes. Martin Scott must have seen 
me pass the window, for I found he 
was following me out. I saw Sir 
Adam standing at his gate and went 
towards him.” 

With what motive did you go?” 

A pause. 1 intended to tell him 
that Scott was there.” 

“ Had you seen Sir Adam aT all 
since the previous evening?” 

AVhether the 3mung lady said Yes 
or No to this question could not be 
told. Her answer was inaudible. 

‘^Now this won’t do,” cried the 
counsel, losing patience. You must 
speak so that the jury can hear you, 


witness; and 3*011 must please lift your 
head. AYhat have vou to be ashamed 
of?” 

At this sting, a bright flush dyed 
tiie 3*oung lady’s pale cheeks: but she 
evidentlv did not think of resisting. 
Lifting her face, she spoke somewhat 
louder. 

I had seen Sir Adam in the morn- 
ing when he was shooting the birds. 
I saw him again in the afternoon, and 
was talking with him for a few min- 
utes. Not for long : some friends 
called on my aunt, and she sent for me 
in.” 

Was anything said about Martin 
Scott that da3’, between 3*011 and Sir 
Adam ? ” 

“ Not a w*ord. We did not so much 
as think of him.” 

‘‘ Why, then, were you hastening in 
the evening to tell Sir Adam that 
Scott was there ? ” 

The witness hesitated and burst into 
tears. Her answer was impeded by 
sobs. 

Of course it was a dreadful thing 
for me to do — as things have turned 
out. I had no ill thought in it. I 
was only going to tell him that Scott 
had come and was sitting with my 
uncle. There was nothing in that to 
make Sir Adam angr3*.” 

‘‘ You have not replied to my ques- 
tion. W/iy did 3*ou hasten to tell Sir 
Adam?” 

There was no ver3^ particular cause. 
Before I left home in iMay, I had hoped 
Mr. Scott had ceased his visits : when 
I found, 1)3^ his coming this evening, 
that he had not, I thought I would tell 
Sir Adam. We both disliked Martin 
Scott from his rudeness to me. I be- 
gan to feel afraid of him again.” 

Afraid of v^iat ? ” 

“ Lest he should be rude to me as 
he had been before.” 

‘•Allow me to ask — in a case of this 
sort, would it not have been your 
uncle’s place to deal with Mr. Scott, 
rather than Sir Adam Andifinian’s ? ” 

The witness l:»ent her head, and 
sobbed/ While the prisoner, without 
affording her time for an3* answer, 
again spoke up. 0 


THE TRIAL. 


45 


Wlien Martin Scott irisnltecl Miss 
Turner before, I bad particularly re- 
quested her to inform me at once if he 
ever attempted such a thing again. I 
also requested lier to let me know of it 
if he resumed his visits at her uncle’s 
house. I wished to protect Miss Tur- 
ner as efficiently as I would have pro- 
tected a sister.” 

The prisoner was ordered to be 
silent. JMiss Turner’s examination 
went on. 

You went out on tliis evening to 
speak to the prisoner, and iMartin 
Scott followed you. What next?” 

‘^Martin Scott caught me up when 
I was close to the bed of rose bushes : 
that is, about half way between the 
liouse and the gate where Sir Adam 
vras standing. He began reproaching 
me ; saying 1 had not given him a 
word of welcome after my long absence, 
and did I think he was going to stand 
it. Before — before — ” 

‘•Before what? Why do you hesi- 
tate ? ” 

The witness’s tears burst forth 
afresh : her voice was pitiable in its 
distress. A thrill of sympathy moved 
the whole court ; not one in it but felt 
for her. 

Before I was aware, Martin Scott 
liad caught me in his arms, and was 
kissing my face. I struggled to get 
away from him, and ran towards Sir 
Adam Andinnian for shelter. It was 
then he took up his gun.” 

“ What did Sir Adam say ? ” 
“iN^othing. He put me behind him 
with one hand, and fired. I recollect 
seeing Hewitt standing beside me then, 
and for a few moments I recollected no 
more. At first I did not know any 
harm was done: on^j’ when I saw 
Hewitt kneeling down in the path over 
Martin Scott.” 

“ What did the prisoner do then ? ” 
“ He put the gun back on the seat 
again, quite quietly, and walked down 
the path towards where they were. 
My uncle and aunt came running out, 
and — and that ended it.” 

With a burst of grief that threat- 
ened to become hysterical, she covered 
her face. Perhaps in compassion, only 


two or three furtlier questions of unim- 
portance were asked her. She had 
told all she knew of the calamity, she 
said ; and was allowed to retire : leav- 
ing the audience most favorably im- 
pressed with the pretty looks, the inno- 
cence, and the modesty of Miss Rose 
Turner. 

A young man named Wharton was 
called; an assistant, to a chemist, and 
a friend of the late Martin Scott. He 
deposed to hearing Scott speak in the 
spring — he thought it was towards the 
end of April — of Mr. Andinnian’s 
threat to shoot him. The witness 
added that he was sure Martin Scott 
took the threat as a serious one, and 
knew that Mr. Andinnian meant it as 
such : though it was possible that with 
the lapse of weeks the impression 
might have worn away in Scott’s mind. 
He was the last witness called on 
either side ; and the two leading coun- 
sel then addressed the jury. 

The judge summed up carefully and 
dispassionatelj^, but not favorably. As 
many said afterwards, he was “dead 
against the prisoner.” The jury re- 
mained in deliberation fifteen minutes 
only, and then came back with their 
verdict. 

Wilful murder: but a very strong 
recommendation to mercy. 

The judge then asked the prisoner if 
he had anything to urge against the 
sentence of Death that was about to be 
passed upon him. 

Hothing but this the i^risoner replied, 
speaking courteously and quietly. That 
he believed he had done only his 
duty : and that Martin Scott had de- 
liberately and defiantly rushed upon 
his own fate : and that if jmung, inno- 
cent, and refined ladies were to be in- 
sulted by reprobate men with iinpuni- 
t}", the sooner the country went back 
to a-state of barbarism the better. To 
this the judge replied, that if for tri- 
fling causes men might with impunity 
murder others in cold blood, the coun- 
try would be already in a state of bar- 
barism, without going back to it. 

l>ut the trial was not to conclude 
without one startling element of sensa- 
tion. The judge had put the black cap 


46 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


on his head, when a talhproiid-loohing, 
handsome lady stepped forward and de- 
manded to say a word in stay of the 
sentence. It was Mrs. Andinnian. 
Waving tlie ushers away who would 
have removed her, she was, perhaps in 
very astonishment, allowed to speak. 

Her son had inherited an uncontrol- 
able temper, she said ; Aer ’temper. If 
anything ocuurred greatlj’ to exasper- 
ate him (but this was very rare) his 
transitory passion was akin to maelness. 
In fLict it was madness for the short 
time it lasted, which was never more 
than for a few moments. To punish 
him by death for any act committed 
by him during this irresponsible time 
would be, she urged, murder. Murder 
upon him. 

Only these few words did she speak. 
Not passionately ; calmly and respect- 
fully ; and with her dark eyes fixed on 
the judge. She then bowed to the 
judge, and retired. The judge inclin- 
ed his head gravely to her in return, 
and proceeded with his sentence. 

Death. But the strong recommen- 
dation of the jurj^ should be forwarded 
to the proper quarter. 

The judge, as was learned later, 
seconded this recommendation warmly: 
in fact, the words he used in passing 
sentence as good as conveyed an inti- 
mation tliat there might be no execu- 
tion. 

Thus ended the famous trial. With- 
in a week afterwards the fiat was 
known : and the sentence was commut- 
ed into penal servitude for life. 

Penal servitude for life ! Think of 
the awful blight to a man in the flower 
of his age and in the position of Adam 
Andinnian ! And all through one mo- 
ment's mad act ! 


CHAPTER V. 

UNABLE TO GET STRONG. 

In an invalid’s chair by the side of 
a fire, reclined Lucy Cleeve. Her face 
was delicate and thin ; her sweet brown 
eyes had almost an anxious look in 
tliem ; the white wrapper she wore 


was not whiter than her cheeks. ^Irs. 
Cleeve was in the opposite chair, read- 
ing. At the window sat Miss Blake, 
working some colors of bright silks on 
a white satin ground. 

As i\Irs. Cleeve turned the page, she 
chanced to look up, and saw in her 
daughter a symptom of shivering. 

Lucy ! My darling, surely you are 
not shivering again V’ 

‘^N — o, I think not,” was the hesi- 
tating answer. ‘‘The fire is getting 
dull, mamma.” 

Mrs. Cleeve stirred the fire into 
brightness, and then brought a warm 
shawl of chenille silk, and folded it 
over Lucy’s shoulders. Chenille shawls 
and fires in summer! For the August 
sun was shining on the world, and the 
blue skies were dark with their purple 
heat. 

The cruel pain that the separation 
from Karl Andinnian had brought to 
Lucy, was worse than any one thought 
for. She was perfectlj^ silent over it, 
bearing all patientljq and so gave no 
sign of the desolation within. Colonel 
and Mrs. Cleeve. said in private how 
reasonable Lucy was, and how well she 
was forgetting the young man. jMiss 
Blake felt sure that she had never 
really cared for him : that the love 
had been mere child’s play. Lucy 
went about wherever they chose to 
take her : to flower-shows, and prome- 
nades, and dances, and picnics. She 
talked and laughed in society as others 
did ; and no mortal wizard or witch 
could have divined she was suffering 
from the effects of a love-fever, that 
had been too rudely checked. 

Very shortly she was to suffer from 
a different fever : one that sometimes 
proves to be just as difficult of cure. 
In spite of the gaiety and the going 
out, Lucy had seemed to be somewhat 
ailing: her appetite failed, and she 
grew to feel tired at nothing. In July 
these symptoms had increased, and she 
was palpably ill. The medical man 
called in, pronounced Miss Cleeve to 
he suffering from a slight fever, com- 
bined with tlireatenings of ague. The 
slight fever grew into a greater one, 
and then became intermittent. Inter- 


UNABLE TO GET STRONG. 


47 


vals of shivering coldness would be 
succeeded by intervals of burning 
heat ; and they in turn by intense 
prostration. The doctor said Miss 
Cleeve must have taken cold ; probably, 
he thought, had sat on damp grass at 
at some picnic. Lucy was very obedi- 
ent. She lay in bed when thej^ told 
her and got up when they told her, 
and took all the medicines ordered 
without a word, and tried to take the 
food. The doctor, at length, with 
much self - gratulation, declared the 
fever at an end : and that Miss Cleeve 
might come out of her bed-room for 
some hours in the day. Miss Cleeve 
did so come : but somehow she did not 
gain strength or improve as she ought 
to have done. Seasons of chilling cold- 
ness would be upon her still, the white 
cheeks would sometimes be bright with 
a very suspicious looking dash of hec- 
tic. Tt would take time to re-establish 
her, said the doctor with a sigh : and 
that was the best he could make of it. 

Whether Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve 
would have chosen to speak much be- 
fore their daughter of the lover she had 
been obliged to resign, cannot be said. 
Most probably not. But circumstances 
over which they had no control led to 
its being done. When, towards the 
close of June, the news of that strange 
tragedy enacted by Adam Andinnian 
broke upon the world, all the world 
was full of it. Not a visitor, calling 
to see them, but went over the marvel- 
lous wonders of the tale in Lucy^s 
hearing, and, as it seemed to her, for 
her own special benefit. The entirely 
unprovoked (as was at first said and 
supposed) nature of the crime; the 
singular fact that it should have been 
committed the very day of his assum- 
ing his rank amidst the baronetage of 
the kingdom; the departure of Mrs. 
Andinnian on the journey that he 
ought to have taken, and the miserable 
thought, so full of poignancy to the 
Andinnian familj^, that if he had gone, 
the calamity could not have happened ; 
the summons to the young lieutenant 
at Winchester, his difficulty with the 
telegram, and his arrival at night to 
find what had happened at the desolate 


house ! All these facts, and very many 
more details, some true, some untrue, 
were brought before Lucy day after 
day. To escape them was impossible 
unless she had shut herself up from 
society, for men and women’s mouths 
were full of them ; and none had the 
least suspicion that the name of Andin- 
nian was more than any other name to 
Lucj^ Cleeve. It was subsequent to 
this, you of course understand, that she 
became ill. During this period, she 
was only somewhat ailing, and was go- 
ing about just as other people went. 

The subject — it has been already said 
— did not die out quickly. Before it was 
allowed to do so, there came the trial; 
and that and its proceedings kept it 
alive for maii}^ a day more. But that 
the matter altogether bore an unusual 
interest, and that a great deal of what 
is called romance encompassed it, by 
which public imagination is fed, was 
undeniable. The step in rank attained 
by Lieutenant Andinnian, his captain- 
cy, was discussed and re-discussed as 
though no man had ever taken it be- 
fore. So that, long ere the period now 
arrived at, August, Colonel and jNLrs. 
Cleeve talked of it before their daugh- 
ter with as little thought of reticence 
as they would have given to the most 
common question of everj^-day life, and 
perhaps had nearly forgotten that there 
had ever been a cause why they should 
observe it. 

A word of Miss Blake. That the 
perfidy — she looked upon it as such — 
of Lieutenant Andinnian in regard to 
herself — was a very bitter blow and 
tried her heart nearly as it was trying 
Lucy, may at once be admitted. Noth- 
ing, in the world or out of it, would 
have persuaded her that the young man 
did not at an early period love her, 
that he would have ultimately married 
her but for the stepping in between 
them of Lucj" Cleeve : and there lay a 
very angr}" and bitter feeling against 
Lucy at the bottom of her heart. Not 
against Mr. Andinnian. The first 
shock over, she quite exonerated him, 
and threw all the weight of blame on 
Lucy. Is it not ever so — that woman, 
in a case of rivalry such as this, detests 


43 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


and misjudges the woman, and exempts 
the man ? 

But IMiss Blake had a very strict 
conscience. In one of more gentle and 
tender nature, this would have been an 
admirable thing; in her, whose nature 
was exceptional!}" hard', it might cause 
her to grow into something undesira- 
bly stern. There was a chance for her 
yet. Underlying her every thought, 
worth action, her witty sallies in the 
ball-room, her prayers in church, re- 
mained ever the one faint hope — that 
Karl Andinnian would recover his 
senses and return to his first allegiance. 
If this ever came to pass, and she be- 
came ]\Irs. Andinnian, the little kind- 
ness existing in Theresa Blake’s nature 
would assert itself. 

With this strict conscience, Miss 
Blake could not encourage her ill-feel- 
ing towards Lucy. On the contrary, 
slie put it resolutely from her, and 
strove to go on her way in a duteous 
course of life and take up her own sor- 
row as a kind of appointed cross. All 
very well, so far as it went : but there 
I was one dreadful want ever making 
itself heard— the want to fill the ach- 
‘ ing void in her lonely heart. (After 
a disappointment to the affections, all 
women feel this need; and none, un- 
less they have felt it, can know or im- 
agine the intense need of it. When 
the heart has been filled to the brim 
with a beloved object, every hour of 
the day gladdened with his sight, every 
dream of the night rejoicing with the 
thought of the morning’s renewed 
meeting, and he is compulsorily snatch- 
ed away for ever, the awful blank left 
is almost worse than death. Every . 
aim, and end, and hope in life has died': 
suddenly out, leaving only a vacuum : 
a vacuum that tells of nothing but 
j)ain. But for finding some object which 
the mind can take up and concentrate 
itself upon, there are women who 
would go rnad.^ Miss Blake found hers 
in religion. 

Close upon that night when you saw 
Tvir. Andinnian and Luc}" Cleeve pacing 
together the garden of the Beverend 
Mr. J^>lake’s rectory, Mr. Blake was 
seized with a fit. The attack was not 


in itself very formidable, but it bore 
threatening symptoms for the future. 
Perfect rest was enjoined by his medi- 
cal attendants, together with absence 
from the scene of his labors. As soon, 
therefore, as he could be moved, Mr. 
Blake departed ; leaving his church in 
charge of his man^’-years curate, and 
of a younger man who was hastily en- 
gaged to assist him. This last was a 
stranger in the place, the Beverejid 
Guy Cattacornb. Now, singular to say, 
but it was the fact, immediately after 
Mr. Blake’s departure, the old curate 
was incapacitated by an attack of very 
serious illness, and he also had to go 
away for rest and change. This left 
the church wholly in the hands of the 
new man, ]Mr. Cattacornb. And this 
most zealous but rather mistaken di- 
vine, at once set about introducing va- 
rious changes in the service ; asking 
nobody’s permission, or saying with 
your leave, or by your leave. 

The service had hitherto been con- 
ducted reverently, plainly, and with 
thorough efficiency. The singing was 
good ; the singers — men and boys — 
wore white surplices : in short, all 
things were done decently and in or- 
der: and both Mr. Blake and his cu- 
rate were excellent preachers. To the 
exceeding astonishment of the congre- 
gation, IMr. Cattacornb swooped down 
upon them the very first Sunday he 
was left to liimself, with what they 
were pleased to' term vagaries.” Va- 
garies they undoubtedly were, and not 
only nee dless ones, but such as were 
cadoulated to bring a wholesome and 
sound Protestant church into disrepute. 
The congregation remonstrated, but 
the Tleverend Guy persisted. The 
power, for the time being, lay in his 
hands, and he used it after liis own 
heart. 

The progress of events need not be 
traced. It is enough to say that the 
Beverend ]\[r. C^ittacomb — whose 
preaching was no better than the rest 
of him : a quarter of an hour’s rant, 
of which nobody could make any sense 
at all — emptied the church. Nearly 
all the old congregation left it. In 
their places a sprinkling of young peo- 


UNABLE TO GET STRONG. 


49 


pie began to frequent it. "We have 
bad examples of these tilings. The 
Keverend Guy led, and his flock (al- 
most the whole of them ardent young 
girls of no experience) followed. Tiiere 
were banners and processions, and im- 
ages of saints and angels, and candle- 
sticks and scrolls and artificial flowers, 
and thrown-np incense, and soft rn lit- 
terings coming from nowhere, and all 
kinds of odd services at all kinds of 
hours, and risings- up and sittings- 
down, and bowings liere and bowings 
there, and private confessions and pub- 
lic absolutions. Whether the church 
was meant to be E/Oman Catholic or 
Protestant no living soul could tell. It 
was ultra-foolish — that is really the 
only name for it — and created some 
scandal. People took to speak of it 
slightingly and disrespectfully as Mr. 
Cattacomb and his tail.” The tail be- 
ing the ardent young ladies who were 
never away from his heels. 

' Never a one amidst them more ar- 
dent than Miss Blake. In the Rever- 
end Guy and his ceremonies she found 
that outlet for the superfluous resources 
or her heart that Karl Andinnian had 
left so vacant. Ten times a day, if the 
church had ten services, or scraps of 
services, was Miss IRake to be seen in 
the knot of worshippers. At earlj^ 
morning she went to xMatins; at sun- 
set she went to Vespers. Once a 
week she was penned up in a close box 
with tlie Reverend Guy, at confession- 
al. ■tSome ladies chose the Reverend 
Tvir. Cattacomb as their father-pri^^st in 
this respect; some, his friend and cp- 
adjutor the Reverend Damon Puff: a 
very zealous young man also, whom 
the former had appointed to his a^is- 
tance. JMiss Blake dhl not neglect the 
claims of society in her new call to de- 
votion ; so that, what with the world 
and what with the church, she had but 
little spare time on her hands. It was 
somewhat unusual to see her, as now, 
seated quietly at her needle. TJie 
work was some beauteous silk embroid- 
ery, destined to cover a cushion for Mr. 
Cattacomb’s reverend knees to kneel 
u[)on when at his private devotions. 
The needle came to a sudden pause. 

3 


I wonder if I am wrong ? ” she 
exclaimed, after regarding attentively 
the leaf that had been growing under 
her hands. ‘‘ IMrs. Cleeve, do you 
think the leaves to this rose should be 
hrown? I fancy they ought to be 
green.” 

Do not ask me anything about it, 
Theresa.” 

Mrs. Cleeve’s answer wore rather a 
I resentful accent. The fact was, both 
herself and Colonel Cleeve were vexed 
at Miss Blake’s wholesale goings-in for 
the comprehensive proceedings of IMr. 
Cattacomb. They had resigned their 
pew in the church themselves, and now 
walked regularly to the beautiful ser- 
vices in the cathedral. Colonel Cleeve 
remonstrated with Miss Blake for what 
he called her foll3^ He told lier that 
she was making lierself ridiculous ; 
and that these ultra innovations could 
but tend to bring religion itself into 
disrepute. It will therefore be under- 
stood that iMrs. Cleeve, knowing what 
the embroidery was destined for, did 
not regard it with approbation. 

‘‘Theresa, if I thought my dear 
child here, Lucy, would ever make the , 
spectacle of herself that you and those^, 
other girls are doing, I should weep 
with sorrow and shame.” 

“ Well I’m sure ! ” cried Miss Blake. 

‘‘ S[)ectacle ! ” 

“What else is it? To see a parcel 
of brainless girls running after Guy 
Cattacomb and that other one — Pufl:’? 
Their mothers ought to know i)etter 
than to allow it. God's pure and rev- 
erent and hoi}" worship is one thing; 
this is quite another.” 

Lucy asked for some of the cooling 
drink that stood near: her mouth felt 
always parched. As her mother 
brought it to her, Lucy pressed her 
hand and looked up in her face with a 
smile. iMrs. Cleeve knew that it was 
?is much as to say. “ There is no fear 
of meP 

Colonel Cleeve came in as the glass 
was being put down. He looked some- 
what anxiously at his daughter: he 
was beginning to be uneasy that slie 
•lid not gain strength more quickly. 

“How do you feel now, my dear?” 


50 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


Only fi little cold, papa.’’ 

“Dear me — and it is a very hot 
da}’ I ” remarked the colonel, ^Yiping 
his brows, for he had been walking 
fast 

Is there any news stirring in the 
town ? “’ asked iMrs. Cleeve. 

‘‘Nothing particular. Captain An- 
dinnian has sold out He could not do 
anything else under the circum- 
stances.*’ 

“ It is a dreadful blight upon the 
young man’s career!” spoke Mrs. 
Cdeevp. 

“ There was no help for it, Lucinda. 
Had he been a general he must have 
done the same. xY man who has a 
brother working in chains, cannot re- 
main an officpr in the Queen’s service. 
Had the brother been hanged, I think 
the Commander-in-chief would have 
been justified in cashiering Captain 
xVndinnian,” added the colonel, who 
was very jealous of his Order. 

Miss Blake turned with a flush of 
emotion. The news fell on her heart 
like lead. Her first thought had been 
— If he has left the army, there will 
he nothing to bring him again to 
r Winchester. 

“ Captain Andinnian cannot be held 
responsible for what his brother did,” 
she said. 

‘‘ Of course not, Theresa.” 

“Neither ought it to be visited upon 
him.” 

“ The worst of these sad things, you 
see, Theresa, is, that they are visited 
upon the relatives: and there’s no 
hindering it. Captain Andinnian must 
go through life henceforth as a marked 
man ; in a degree as a banned one : 
liable to be pointed at by every 
stranger as a man who lias a brother a 
cunvict.” 

“ Will Sir Adam be sent to x\us- 
tralia ? ” asked Idrs. Cleeve. 

“No. To Bortland Island. It is 
.said he is already there.” 

' “ I wonder what will become of his 
money ? His estate, and that ? ” 

“ K.eport runs that he made it all 
over to his mother before tlie trial. I 


don't know how far that may be true. 
Well, it is a thousand pities for Cap- 
tain Andinnian,” summed up the 
colonel : “ he was a very nice young 
fellow.” 

They might have thought Lucy, 
sitting there with her face covered, was 
asleep, she was so still. Colonel and 
Mrs. Cleeve were called away to receive 
some visitors; and Miss Blake began 
folding lier silks and white satin in 
tissue paper, for the hou-r of some ser- 
vice or other was at hand. Halting 
for a moment at the fire to shake the 
ends of silk from her gown into the 
hearth, she glanced at Lucy. 

“ Suppose you had been married to 
Karl Andinnian, Lucy!” 

“Well?” 

“ What an awful fate it would have 
been for you ! ” 

“ I should only have clung to him 
the closer, Theresa,” was the low an- 
swer. And it must be premised that 
neither Lucy nor any one else had the 
slightest notion of jMiss Blake’s regard 
for Karl. 

iMiss Blake glanced at her watch. 

She had two minutes yet. She turned 
and stood before Lucy. 

“You — you do not mean to imply 
that you would marry Captain Andin- 
uian now ! ” 

“ I would, Theresa. My father and 
mother [)ermitting.” 

“ You unhai)py girl ! Where’s your 
pride ? ” 

“ I did not say I was going to do it, 
Theresa. You put an imaginary 
proposition ; one that is altogether im- 
possible, and I rej)lied to that. I do 
noli.expect ever to see Karl xVndinnian 
ag^in in this world.” 

Something in the despairing accent 
touched Miss Blake, in spite of her ^ 
wild jealousy. “ You seem very poorly^ 
to-day, Lucy,” she gently said. “ xVre 
you in pain ? ” 

“ No,” re[)lied Lucy, with a sigh ; 

“ not in pain. But I don’t seem to 
get much better, do 1, Theresa ? I 
wish I could, for papa and mamma’s 


AN AT MO SPHERE OF MYSTERY. 


51 


CHAPTER VI. 

AX atmosph?:re of mystery. 

It seemed to Mrs. Andinnian and 
to her son, Kar1, that trouble like unto 
theirs had never yet fallen upon man. 
Loving Adam as the}" did, for his sake 
it was more than they knew how to 
bear. Tlie disgrace and blight to 
themselves were terrible ; to Karl 
especially, wlio was, so to say, only 
entering on life. There are some 
calamities that can never be riglited in 
this world ; no, nor scarcely softened. 
This was one. Calamities where we 
can only hear^ and look forward to and 
live on for the next world, where no 
pain will be. In KarFs mind this was 
ever present. 

The bare fact of the selling-out was 
to Karl Andinnian a bitter blow. He 
was attached to his profession : and lie 
had been looking forward to finding, in 
the active discliarge -of its duties, a 
relief from the blank left by the loss 
of Lucy Cleeve. Now he must be 
thrown utterly u[)on himself; an idle 
man. Everyone was very kind to 
him ; from the Commander-in-chief, 
with whom he had an interview, down- 
wards ; evincing for him the truesf 
resjiect and sympathy : but not one of 
them said, Won’t you reconsider 
your determination and remain with 
us?” His Royal Highness civilly ex- 
pressed regret at the loss Her Majesty 
would sustain in a good servant; but 
he took the withdrawal as a matter 
that admitted of no question. There 
could be none. Captain Andinnian’s 
only brother, escaping the gallows by 
an accorded . favor, was working in 
chains on Portland Island: clearly the 
captain, brave and unsullied man 
though he individually was, could but 
hasten to hide his head in private life. 

It was a happy thing for Karl that 
he had plenty of business on his hands 
just now. It saved him in a degree 
from thought. Besides his own mat- 
ters, there were many things to see to 
for his mother. The house in North- 
amptonshire was given up, its furni- 
ture sold, its houseliold, except Hewitt, 


discharged. Karl was on the spot, 
and saw to it all. Whilst there, he 
had rather a struggle with himself. 
His natural kindliness of feeling 
prompted him to call and see iMiss 
Turner: personally he shrunk from it, 
for he could not forget that it was 
through her all the misery had hap- 
pened. He did violence to his inclina- 
tion, and called. The young lady 
seemed to be in very depressed spirits, 
and said but little. During the inter- 
val that had elapsed since the trial, her 
uncle, to whom she was much attached, 
had died. She tokl. Karl that her 
aunt, Mrs. Turner, intended to remove 
at once to her native place, a remote 
district of Cumberland : Rose supposed 
she should have to remove with her. 
jMr. Turner had left a very fair amount 
of property. His wife was to receive 
the interest of it for her life; at her 
death the whole of it would come to 
Rose. As Karl shook hands with her 
on leaving, and wished her well, some- 
thing he said was taken by her as 
alluding to the unhappy tragedy, 
though he had intended nothing of the 
sort. It had a strange effect upon her. 
She rose from her seat, her hands trem- 
bling ; her face became burning red, 
then changed to a ghastly whiteness. 

Don’t speak of it. Captain Andin- 
nian,” she exclaimed in a voice of hor- 
ror; ‘Hlon’t hint at it, unless you 
would see me go mad. There are 
times when I think that madness will 
be my ending.” Again wishing her 
well, he took liis departure. It was 
rather unlikely, he thought, that their 
paths would cross each other' again in 
life. 

Hewitt was sent to Foxwood. It 
would probably be made the future 
home of Mrs. Andinnian and her 
younger son : but at present they had 
not gone there. For some little time, 
while Karl was busy in London, 
Northamptonshire, or elsewhere, he 
had lost sight of his mother. She 
quitted the temporary home she occu- 
pied, and, so to say, disappeared. 
\yhile he was wondering what this 
meant, and where she could be, he re- 
ceived a letter from her dated Wey- 


62 


WITIIIX THE MAZE. 


month. She told him she had taken 
lip lier abode therefor the present, and 
she charged him not to divsclose tins to 
any one, or to let her address be known. 
J ust for a moment Karl was puzzled 
to imagine what her motive conld be 
in going to a place that she knew no- 
thing of. All at once the truth flashed 
upon him — she would be as near as 
possible to that cruel prison that con- 
tained her ill-fated son. 

It was even so. Adam Andinnian 
was on Portland I.sland ; and his moth- 
er had taken up her residence at We}^- 
month to be near him. Karl, who 
knew not the place, or the rules observ- 
ed. wondered whether a spectator miglit 
stroll about on the (so-called) island 
at will, or ever get a chance glimpse 
of the gangs at their labor. 

In the month of October, Captain 
Andinnian — to call him by this title 
In* a short while longer — went to Wey- 
mouth. He found his mother estab- 
lished in a small, mean, reariy-furnish- 
ed house in an obscure })art of the 
town. It was necessary for him to see 
her on matters connected with the 
Fox wood estate, of which he had now 
the management; but she had charged 
1dm to come to her in as private a 
manner as lie well could, and not to 
make himself or his name known at the 
station or elsewhere, unless under ne- 
cessity. She is right,’’ thought Karl, 
“ the name of Andinnian is notorious 
now.’’ 

Jbit my dear mother, wh}^ are yon 
Itere?''^ lie asked within flve minutes 
of his entrance, as he look'ed at the 
confined walls of the mean abode. 
“You might at least have been more 
comfortahly and suitably lodged.” 

“ What I choose to do, 1 do,” she 
answered, in the distant tones of for- 
mer da^'s. “It is not for you to ques- 
tion me.” 

]Mrs. Andinnian was altered. IMen- 
tal suffering had told upon her. The 
once fresh hues of her complexion had 
given place to a fixed pallor; the large 
dark eyes had acqidred a fierce and yet 
restless look. In manner alone she 
was unaltered : and as to her pride, it 
seemed to be more doruiiiant than ever. 


“I was only thinking of your com- 
fort, mother,” he replied to her fierce 
rejoinder. “This is so different from 
what 3 ’ou have been accustomed to.” 

“Circumstances are different,” she 
said, curtlj". 

“Have you but one servant in the 
whole house ? For everything? ” 

“ She is enough for me : she is a 
faithful woman. I tell you that cir- 
cumstances are not what they were.” 

“ Some are not — unhappily,” he an- 
swered. “But others, pecuniary ones, 
have changed the other way. You are 
rich now.” 

“And do you think I would touch a 
stiver of the riches that are my dear 
Adam’s?” she retorted, her eyes blaz- 
ing. “Save what may be necessary to 
keep up Foxwood, and to — to — . Ko,” 
she resumed, after the abrupt breaking 
off, “ I hoard them for him.” 

Karl wondered whether trouble had 
a little touched her brain. Poor Adam 
could have no further use for riches in 
this world. Unless, indeed, in years 
to come, he should obtain what was 
called a ticket of leave. But he fan- 
cied in a case like Adam’s — Condem- 
mation cotntnuted — it was never given. 

]\Irs. Andinnian began asking the 
details of the giving-u]) of her former 
home. In answering, Karl hap[)ened 
to mention incidimtally the death of 
their neighbor, Mr. Turner, and his 
interview with Pose. The latter’s 
name excited Mrs. Andinnian beyond 
all precedent: it brought on one of 
those frightful fits of passion that Karl 
had not seen of late years. 

“ I loathe her,” she wildly said. 
“ But for her wicked machinations, my 
darling son had not fallen into this 
dreadful fate that’s worse than death. 
May my worst cupses light upon the 
head of Pose Turner!” 

Karl did what he could to soothe 
the storm he had unwittingly evoked 
He told his mother that she would 
never, in all probability, be grieved 
by the sight of the girl agtiin, for she 
was removing to the out-of-the-world 
district of Cumberland. 

The one servant, alluded to by Karl, 
was a silent-mannered, capable woman 


AX AT^rOSPIIEIlE OF ^.lYSTERY. 


53 


of pome forty years. Her mistress call- 
ed her but Karl found she 

was a ^[rs. Hoplej^ a married woman. 
That she appeared to be really attached 
to her mistress, to sympathize with her 
in her ^reat misfortune, and to be soli- 
citous to render her every little service 
that could soothe her, Captain Andin- 
nian saw and felt grateful for. 

‘‘ Where is your husband ? ” he one 
day inquired. 

Hopley’s out getting his living, 
sir A was the answer. We have had 
misfortunes, sir: and when the}’’ come 
to people such as us, we must do the 
best we can to meet them, llopley’s 
working on his side, and me on mine.” 

He is not in Weymouth then ? ” 

No, he is not in Wejunouth. We 
are not Weymouth people, sir^ I douT 
know much about the j)Iace. I never 
lived at it till I came to Mrs. Andin- 
riian. 

By this, Karl presumed that his 
mother had brought ^frs. Hopley with 
her when she came herself : but he ask- 
ed no further. It somewhat explained 
what he had rather wondered at — that 
his mother, usually so reticent, and more 
tlian ever so now, should have disclosed 
their great calamit}' to this woman. 
He thought the servant must have been 
already cognisant of it. 

“ What misfortune was it of your 
own that you allude to?” he gently 
ask ed. 

It was connected with our son, sir. 
We never had but him. He turned 
out wild. While he was quite a lad, so 
to say, he ruined us, and I had to 
break up the home.” 

And where is he now ? ” 

She put her check apron up to her 
face to liide the emotion there. He 
is dead,” was the low answer. He 
died a dreadful death, sir, and I can’t 
yet bear to talk of it. It’s hardly 
three months ago.” 

Karl looked at the black ribbon in 
her cap, at the neat gown of black and 
white print she did her work in: and 
his heart went out to the woman’s sor- 
row. He understood better now — she 
aiul her mistress had a grief in com- 
mon. 


But as the days went on, Karl An- 
dinnian could not help remarking that 
there was an atmosphere of strangcme-^s 
pervading the house: he could almost 
have said mystery. Frequentl\^ were 
mistress and maid closested together 
in close conference; the door locke<l 
upon them, the conversation carried 
on in whispers. Twice he saw Ann 
Hopley go out so be-cloaked and be- 
large-honneted that it almost looked as 
though she were doing it for disguise. 
Karl thought it very strange. 

One evening when he was reading to 
his mother by candle-light, the front 
door was softly knocked at, and some 
one was admitted into the kitchen. In 
the small house, all sounds were plain- 
ly heard. A minute or two, and Ann 
came in to say a visitor wished to speak 
to her mistress. AVhile Karl was won- 
dering at this — for his mother was en- 
tirely unknown in the place — Mrs. 
Andinnian rose without the least sur- 
prise, looked at her son and hesitate<l. 

‘‘ Will you step into another room, 
Karl. ^,J\ry interview must be private.” 

So ! she had expected this visit. 
Captain Andinnian went into his bed- 
room. He saw — for his curiosity was 
excited, and he did not quite close the 
door — he saw a tall, big, burly man, 
much wrapped up, and who kept his 
hat on, walk up the passage to tiie 
sitting-room, lighted thither by Ann. 
It seemed to the captain as though 
the visitor wished not to be seen. 
The interview lasted about twenty 
minutes. Ann then showed the man 
out again, and Karl returned to the 
parlor. 

Who was it, mother ?” 

‘^A person to see me on private 
business,” replied Mrs. Andinnini 
in a voice that etiectually checked fut 
ther inquiries. 

The da^'s passed on monotonously. 
Mrs. Andinnain was generally buried 
in her own thoughts, scarcely ever 
speaking to him. If she would but 
make a true son of me and give me 
her confidence ! ” Karl often thought. 
But, to do anvthing of the kind was 
evi<iently not the purport of Mrs. Au- 
dinnian. 


54 


WITH IX THE MAZE. 


lie one day went over to Portland 
Island. Tile wish to make the 
a.re and see what the j>lace was like 
liad been in liis mind from the first : 
but, in the midst of the wish, a dread- 
ful distaste to it drew him back, and 
lie had let the time elapse without 
going. October was on its third week 
and the days were getting wdntry. 

It is a dreary spot — and it struck 
with a strange dreariness on Captain j 
Andinnian’s spirit. Storms, that seem 
to fall lightly on otlier places, rage out 
their fury there. Half a gale was 
Idowing that day, and he seemed to 
feel its roughness to the depth of his 
heart. The prospect around, with its 
lieaving sea, romantic enough at some 
times, was all too wild to-day; the 
Pace at Portland, that turbulent place 
wliich cannot be crossed by vessel, gave 
him a fit of the shivers. As to the 
few houses he saw, they were as poor 
as the one inhabited by his mother. 

In one of the quarries, amidst its 
great masses of stone, stood Captain 
Andinnian, his eyes fixed on the foam- 
irig sea, his thoughts most bitter. 
Within a few yards of him, so to sa\’, 
worked his unfortunate brother; chain- 
e<l. a felon ; all his hoj)es in this world 
blighted ; all his comforts in life gone 
out forever. Karl himself was pecu- 
liarly susceptible to physical discom- 
fort, as sensitive-natured men are apt 
to be ; and he never thouglit without 
a slmdderof what Adam had to under- 
• go in this respect. 

“ Subjected to endless toil ; to cruel 
deprivation ; to isolation from all his 
kirid!’^ groaned Karl aloud. Oh, 
mv brother, if — ’’ 

H is voice died away in very aston- 
ishment. Emerging from behind one 
of tlie blocks, at right angles witli him, 
came two people walking side b}^ side, 
and evidently conversing in close whis- 
]>ers. In the cloaked-up woman, with 
the large black bonnet and black crape 
veil over her face, Karl was sure he 
saw their servant, Ann Ilopely. The 
other must bo, he thought, one of the 
warders : and, unless Karl was greatl}’ 
mistaken, he recognized in his big, 
burly frame the same man who had 


come a night or two before to liis 
mother’s house. They passed (ui 
without seeing him, but he saw the 
man’s face distinctly. 

A light dawned on his mind. His 
mother was striving to make a friend 
of this warder; with a view of con- 
ve^dng messages, perliaps also it might 
be, physical comforts to Adam. But 
why need she have hidden it from him, 
j Karl ? 

When he got home that night, for 
he stayed out until he was tired and 
weaiy, Ann Hopely, in her usual home 
attire, was putting the tea-tray on the 
table. 

‘‘ I fancied I saw Ann out to-day,’’ 
he observed to his mother when they 
were alone. 

“ She went out on an errand for 
me,” replied Mrs. Andinnian. 

‘‘ I have been over to the Island,” 
continued Karl. ‘‘It was there I 
thought I saw her.” 

Mrs. Andinnian was pouring some 
cream into the tea-cups when he spoke. 
She put down the frail glass jug with 
a force that smashed it, and tlie cream 
ran over the tea-board. 

“ You have been to the Island ! ’’ 
she cried, in a voice that betrayed 
some dreadful terror. “ To the 
Island ? How dared you go ? ” 

Karl \vas rising to see what he 
could do towards repairing the mis- 
chief The words arrested him. He 
had again been so unlucky as to raise 
one of her storms of passion : but this 
time he could see no reason in her 
anger. 

“ To-day is the first time I have 
been to the Island, mother. But I am 
thinking of going again. And of 
getting — if it be possible to obtain 
permission — to see him.” 

A livid color spread itself over IMrs. 
Andinnian’s face. “ I forbid it^ Karl. 
I forbid it, do you hear? You would 
ruin everything. 1 forbid you to go 
again on- the Island, or to attempt to 
see Adam. Good heavens! you might 
be recognized for his brother.” 

“And if I were?” cried Karl, feel- 
ing (completely at sea. 

Mrs. Andinnian sat with her two 


AN ATMOSPHERE OF MYSTERY. 


55 


liands on the edge of the tea-tray, 
staring at liirn. 

“ Karl, you must go away to-mor- 
row.' To think you could be such a 
fool as to go there! This is v/orse 
than all. To-morrow 3’ou leave.’^ 

Mother, wh\" will you not place 
trust in me ! l)o you think you could 
liave a truer confidant ? — or Adam a 
warmer friend? I guess the object of 
Ann’s visit to the Island. I saw her 
talking with one of the warders to- 
da\' — the same man, or I fancied it, 
that came here the other night. That 
moment solved me the ridale : and — ” 
Hush — sh — sh — sh ! ” breathed 
LTrs. Andinnian in a terrified tone, 
ringing the bell, and looking round 
the walls of the room as if in dread 
tiiat they had ears. Not another 
word, Karl : I won’t hear it.” 

As you please, mother,” he re- 
joined, feeling bitterly hurt at her. 
lack of trust. 

‘‘ Have you more cream in the 
house, Ann?” said Mrs. Andinnian, 
calmly, when the woman appeared. 

And you had better change the 
tray.” 

The meal was concluded in silence. 
Karl took up a newspaper lie had 
brought in ; Mrs. Andinnian sat 
moodily gazing into the tire. And so 
the time, went on. 

Suddenly there arose the distant 
sound of guns, booming along on the 
still night air. To Captain Andin- 
nian it suggested no ulterior thought; I 
lirought no cause for agitation : but 
his mother started up in wild commo- 
tion. 

The guns, Karl ! The guns ! ” 
What guns are they?” he ex- 
claimed in surprise. “ Wiiat are they 
tiring for?” 

Slie did not answer ; she only stood 
still as a statue, her mouth slightl}" 
0})en with intensit}" of listening ; her 
dinger lifted up. In the midst of this, 
Ann Hopley opened the door without 
sound, and looked in with a terror- 
stricken face. 

It is not ma’am ; don’t 3’ou 

be afeared. It’s some other convicts 
that are off; but it can’t be him. 
The plan’s not yot organized.” 


Ami Karl learnt that these were the 
guns from Portland Island, announc- 
ing the esca[)e, or attempted escaj^e, 
of some of its miserable prisoners.* 

Well for him if he had learned 
nothing else! The true and full 
meaning of what had been so mvste- 
rious flashed upon him now, like a 
sheet of lightning that lights up and 
reveals the secrets of the darkness. 
It was not Adam’s comforts they were 
surreptitiously’ seeking to ameliorate; 
they were plotting for his escape. 

His escape ! As the truth took pos- 
session of Captain Andinnian, his face 
grew white with a sickening terror; 
his brow damp as with a death sweat. 

For he knew that nearly all these 
attempted escapes result in utter fail- 
ure. The unhappy, deluded victims 
are re-captured, or drowned, or shot. 
Sitting there in Ids shock of agony, 
his dazed eyas gazing out to the fire, a 
prevision that death in one shape or 
other would be his brother’s fate, if 
he did make t])e rash venture, seated 
itself firmly^ within him, as surely’ as 
thougii he had seen it in some fortune- 
teller’s magic crystal. 

Mother,” he said in a low tone, as 
he took her hand, and the door closed 
on Ann Hopley, I understand it all 
now. I thought, simple that I was, 
that I had understood it before : and 
that you were but striving to get a 
way of conveydng trifles in the shape 
of comforts to Adam. This is dread- 
! ful.” 

“What is the matter with ymu ? ” 
cried Mrs. Andinnian. “ You look 
ready to die.” 

“The matter is, that this has shock- 
ed me. I pray Heaven, Adam will 
not be so foolhardly as to attempt to 
escape 1 ” 

“ And 10 hy should he not ? ” blazed 
forth Mrs. Andinnian. 

Karl shook his head. “ In nine 
cases out of ten, the result is nothing 
but death.” 

“ And the tenth case results in life, 
in liberty’!” she rejoined exultantly’. 
“ My’ brave son does well to try for 
it.” 

Karl hid his eyes. The first thought, 
in the midst of the many tumultuously’ 


00 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


crowding his brain, was the strange!}’’ 
different estimation different people 
seT; on things. Here was his mother 
glorying in that to-be-attempted escape 
as if it were some great deed dared by 
a great general : he saw only its results. 
Whatever they might be : allowing 
that Adam did escape and regain his 
liberty : what would the liberty be ? 
A life of miserable concealment ; of 
playing at hide-and-seek with the law ; 
a world-wide apprehension, lying on 
him always, of being retaken. In 
short, a hunted man, who must not 
dare to approach the haunts of his fel- 
lows, and of whom every other man 
must be the enemy. To Karl, the 
present life of degrading labor would 
be preferable to that. 

‘‘ Do you wish to keep him there for 
life — that you may enjoy the benefit 
of his place at Foxwood and his mon- 
ey ? resumed Mrs. Andinnian, in a 
tone that she well knew how to make 
contemptuously bitter. It stung Karl. 
His answer was full of pain : the pain 
of despair. ' 

I wish life had never been for him, 
mother. Or for me, either. If I 
could restore Adam to what he has 
forfeited by giying my own, I would 
do it willingly. I have not much left 
to live for.^’ 

The tone struck Mrs. Andinnian. 
She thought that even the reflected 
disgrace, the stain on his name, 
scarcely justified it. Karl said a few 
words to her then of the blight that 
had fallen on his own life — the sever- 
ance from Lucy Cleeve. She told him 
she was sorry : but it was quite evi- 
dent that she was too much pre-occupied 
wiih other things to care about it. 

With the morning, Weymouth 
learnt the fate of the poor convict — it 
was only one — who had attempted to 
escape, after whom the guns were let 
loose like so many blood-hounds. He 
was retaken. It was a man who had 
attempted escape once before, and un- 
successfully. 

The plans were badly laid,’ ^ calmly 
remarked Mrs. Andinnian. 

She did not insist upon Karl’s quit- 
ting her : he knew all now ; and. 


though he could not approve, he would 
not do anything to frustrate : and some 
more days passed on. Karl fancied, 
but could not be sure, that the other 
attempt at escape caused the action of 
this to be delayed. His mother and 
Ann Hopely seemed to be always in 
secret conference, and twice again there 
came stealthily to the house at night 
the same warder: or the man whom 
Kari had taken for one. 


CHAPTER YII. 

AT THE CHARTXG-CROSS HOTEL. 

On All Saints’ D%v, the first of No- 
vember — and it was as bright a day for 
the festival as the saints, whether in 
that world or tin's, could wish, Captain 
Andinnian went up to London, to 
transact some business with his lawyers, 
Plunkett and Plunkett. Their cham- 
bers were within the precints of the 
Temple, and for convenit^nce sake he 
took up his quarters at the Charing 
Cross Hotel. 

In the course of the afternoon, as 
he was turning out of Essex Street, 
having come through the little court 
from Plunkett and Plunkett’s he ran 
against a gentleman passing down the 
Strand. “ I beg your pardon,” Karl 
was beginning, and then became sud- 
denly silent. It was Colonel Cleeve. 

Put, instead of passing on, as Karl 
might have expected, the colonel stop- 
ped and shook him cordially by the 
hand. To pass him would have jarred 
on every kindly instinct of his nature. 
As to tim afiiiir with his daughter, he 
attached no importance to it now, and 
h:^] three parts forgotten it. 

You have sold out, Ca[)tain Andin- 
nian. I — I have been so very sorry 
for the sad causes that induced the 
step. Believe me, you have had all 
along my very best sympathy.” 

Karl hardly knew what he answer- 
ed. A few words of murmured ^thanks, 
nothing more. 

“ You are not well,” returned the 
colonel, regarding the slender form 
j looking thinner than of yore, very thin 


AT THE CHARING-CPvOSS HOTEL. 


57 


in ifcs black attire. ‘‘ This has told up- 
on you.’^ 

It has; very much. Tliere are 
some trials that can never be made 
/ight in tl)is life/’ he continued* speak- 
ing the thoughts that were ever upper- 
most in his mind. ‘‘This is one of 
them. I thank you for your sympathy, 
Colonel Cleeve.” 

“ And that’s true, unfortunately,” 
cried the colonel warmly. “ You don’t 
know how you are regretted at Win- 
chester b}^ your brother officers.” 

With another warm handshake, the 
colonel passed on. Karl walked back 
to his hotel. In traversing one of its 
upper passages, a young lady came out 
of a sitting-room to cross to an oppo- 
site cliamber. Captain Andinnian took 
a step back to let her pass in front of 
him ; and they met face to face. 

“ Lucy ! ” 

“ Karl ! ” 

The salutation broke from each be- 
fore the)' well knew where they were 
or wliat had happened, amidst a rusli 
of bewildering excitement, of wild joy. 
They had, no doubt, as in duty bound, 
l>een trying to forget each other; this 
moment of unexpected meeting proved 
to each how foolish was the fallacy. 
A dim idea made itself heard within 
either breast tliat they ought, in that 
duty aHuded to, to pass on and linger 
not : but we all know how vain and 
weak is the human heart. It was not 
possible : and they stood, hand locked 
within hand. 

Only for an instant. Lucy, looking 
very weak and ill, leaned back against 
tlie door-post for support. Karl stood 
before her. 

“ I have just meet Colonel Cleeve,” 
he said : “ but I had no idea tluit yon 
were in London. Are you staying 
here?” 

‘•Until to-morrow. We came up 
yesterday. Papa chose this hotel, as 
it is convenient for the Folkestone 
trains. Mamma is here.” 

“ Lucy, how very ill you look !” 

“ Yes. I had fever and ague in the 
summer, and do not get strong again. 
We are going to Paris for change. 
You do not look well either,” added 
Lucy. 


“ I have not had fever: but I have 
had other things to try me,” was his 
rej)ly. 

Oh, Karl ! I have been so griev- 
ed ! ” she earnestly said. “ I di<l not 
know your brother, but I — I seemed to 
feel all the dreadful trouble as much as 
you could have felt it. When we are 
not strong, I think we do feel things.” 

“ You call it by its right name, Lu- 
! c)’ — a dreadfid trouble. • Ko one but 
j myself can know what it has been to 
me.;-’ 

They were gazing at each other 
3'earningly: Lucy witli her sweet brown 
eyes so full of tender compassion, Karl’s 
gre^'-blue ones with a world of sorrow- 
ful regret in their depths. As she had 
done in their interview when the}^ were 
parting, so she now did again — put out 
her liand to him, with a whisper meant 
to soothe. 

“ You will live it down, Karl.” 

He slightly' shook his head : and took 
her hand to hold between his. 

‘‘ It is onlj^ since this happened that 
I have become at all reconciled to — to 
what had to be done at Winchester, 
Lucy'. It would have been so greatly 
worse, had 3'ou been tied to me bj' — by 
any engagement.” 

“Not worse for you, Karl, but bet- 
ter. I should have helped 3'ou so much 
to bear it.” 

^ ‘- My darling ! ” - 

The moment the words had crossed 
his lips, he remembered what honor 
and his long-ago-passed word to Colo- 
nel Cleeve demanded of him — that he 
should absolutely abstain from showing 
any token of affection for Lucy. Nay, 
to observe it strictly, he ought not to 
have stayed to talk with her. 

“ I beg your pardon, Lucy'/’ he said, 
dropping her hand. 

“ She understood quite well : a faint 
color mantled in her pale face. 

“ God bless you, Luc)',” he whisper- 
ed. “ Farewell.” 

“ 0 Karl — -a moment,” she implored 
with agitation, hardly knowing, in the 
pain of parting, what she said. “Just 
to tell 3'ou that I have not forgotten. 
I never shall forget. M3' regret for 
what had to be lies on me still.” 

“ God bless you,” he repeated, in 


68 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


deep emotion. God bless and restore 
you, Lucy ! ” 

Once more their finders met in a 
brief handshake. And then they part- 
ed ; lie goino^ one way, she the otlier ; 
and tlie world liad grown dim again. 

Later in the day Karl heard it inci- 
dentally mentioned by some people in 
the coffee-room, that Colonel and ]\Irs. 
Cleeve with their daughter and two 
servants were going to make a prolonged 
stay on the Continent for the benefit 
of the young lady’s health, who had 
been sulfering from fever. Little did 
they think that the quiet, distinguish- 
ed looking man in mourning, who had 
but come in to ask for some informa- 
tion, and was waiting while the waiter 
brought it, had more to do with the 
young lady’s failing health than any 
fever. 

Captain Andinnian took his break- 
fast next morning in private, and 
the waiter brought him a newspaper. 
While listlessly unfolding it, he took 
the opportunity to ask a question. 

Have Colonel Cleeve and his fam- 
ily left the hotel ? ” 

‘•'Yes, sir. Just gone off for Folke- 
stone. I>oiled ham, sir; eggs; steak 
with mushrooms,” continued tlie man, 
removing sundry covers. 

“ Thank you. You need not wait.” 

Hut — ere the man had well closed 
the door, a startled sound like a groan 
of agony burst from Karl’s lips. He 
sprung from his seat at a bound, his 
eyes riveted on tlie newspaper in one 
stare of disbelieving horror. The par- 
agraph had a heading in large letters — 

‘‘ Attemptp:d Escape from Port- 
land Island. 

Death of the Prisoner, Sir 
Adam Andinnian. 

Karl let the newspaper fall, and 
buried his face on the table-cloth to 
shut out the light. He had not cour- 
age to read more at once. He lay 
there praying that it might not be true. 

Alas! it was too true. Two prison- 
ers had attem|)ted to escape in concert ; 
Sir Adam Andinnian and a man named 
Cole. They succeeded in reaching the 


water and got off in a small boat lying 
ready in wait. Some warders pursued 
them in another boat ; and, after an 
exciting chase in the dark night, came 
up with them as they reached the 
Weymouth side. Sir Adam was shot 
dead by a pistol ; the small boat was 
upset, and one of the warders drowned. 
Cole was supposed to have made his 
escape. 

Such was the statement given in the 
newspapers. And however uncertain 
the minor details might be at this ear- 
ly stage, one part admitted of no doubt 
— Adam Andinnian was dead. 

“ I seemed to foresee it,” moaned 
Karl. “From the very first, the per- 
suasion has lain upon me that this 
would be the ending.” 

Ere many minutes elapsed, ere he 
had attempted to touch a morsel of 
breakfast, a gentleman was shown in. 
It was Mr. Plunkett: a stout man in 
spectacles, with a large red nose. He 
had the Times in his hand. Captain 
Andin Ilian’s paper lay open on the 
breakfast table; Captain Andinnian’s 
face, as he rose to receive his visitor, 
betrayed its own story. 

“I see ; 3mu have read the tidings,” 
began Mr. Plunkett, sitting down. 
“ It is a dreadful thing.” 

“Do — do you think there’s any 
chance that it may not be true, Mr. 
Plunkett?” he rejoined in an implor- 
ing tone. 

“There’s not the slightest as to the 
main fact — that Sir Adam is dead.” 
replied the lawyer decisivcl3\ “What 
could he have been thinking of, to haz- 
ard it ? ” 

Karl sat shading his face. 

“ I’ll tell Amu what it is, sir — there 
was a spice of madness in 3mur broth- 
er. I said so when he shot Scott. 
There must have been. And who, but 
a madman, would tr3" to get awa3^ from 
Portland Island ? ” 

“Na3\ A rash act; but not one 
that implies madness, Mr. Plunkett.” 
And then there ensued a silence. 

“I have intruiled on 3’ou this morn- 
ing to express my best S3nnpathy, and 
to ask whether I can be of an3' service 
to you, ‘Captain Andinnian. I beg 


IN THE AVENUE D’ANTIN. 


69 


your pardon : Sir Karl, I ought to say. 
if — ’’ 

Karl had raised his head in resent- 
ment — in defiance. It caused the law- 
yer’s break. 

Nay, but 5^011 are Sir Karl, sir. 
You succeed to 3'our brother.’^ 

Tlie reminder grated on me, Mr. 
Plunkett.’^ 

“ The title’s yours and the estates 
are yours. Every earthly thing is 
yours.” 

Yes, yes; I suppose so.” 

^^Weil, if we can do anything for 
you, Sir Karl, down there” — indicat- 
ing with a nod of his head the direc- 
tion in which Portland Island might 
be supposed to lie — or at Fox wood, 
you have onl\^ to send to us. ] hope 
you understand that I am not speaking 
now with a view to business, but as 
a friend,” concluded Mr. Plunkett. 
‘•I’ll saj' no more now, for I see you 
are not yourself.” 

Indeed I am not,” replied Karl. I 
thank you all the same. As soon as I 
can I must get down to my mother.” 

Never had Karl imagined distress 
and anguish so great as that whicli 
he witnessed on his arrival at We}"- 
mouth. For once all his mother’s 
pride of power had deserted her. She 
flung herself at the feet of Karl, de- 
manding ivhy he did not persist in his 
objection to the contemplated attempt, 
and interfere openly, even by declaring 
all to the governor of Portland prison, 
^and so save his brother. It was alto- 
gether too distressing for Karl to bear. 

The first account was in the main 
correct. Adam Andinnian and the 
warder were both dead : the one shot, 
the other drowned. 

It was understood that the body 
might be given up to them for burial. 
Though whether this was a special fa- 
vor, according to the entreaties of I\rrs. 
Andinnian, or a not-unusual one, Karl 
knew not. He would have thought it 
better that the interment should have 
been at Weymouth and made one of 
the utmost privacy: but Mrs. Andin- 
nian would have him taken to Fox- 
wood, and she despatched Karl thither 
to make arrangements. 


On the day but one after Karl 
reached Foxwood, all that remained 
of poor Sir Adam arrived. Mrs. An- 
dinnian came in company. She could 
not bear to ])art even with the dead. 

“I wish 1 could have seen him,” re- 
marked Karl sadly, as he stood with 
his hand on the coffin. 

have seen him, Karl,” she an- 
swered amid her blinding tears. ‘^They 
suffered me to look at him. His fiice 
was peaceful.” 

They, and they only, saving Hewitt, 
attended the funeral. He was buried 
in the family vault, side by side with 
Sir Joseph and Lady Andinnian. 

W’^hat an ending, for a young man 
who, but a few short months before, 
had been full of health and hope and 
life ! 

Put the world, in its cold charity, 
said it was better so. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

m THE AVENUE d’ANTIN. 

Neav year’s day. Or, as the 
French more emphatically term it, tlm* 
Jour de I’An. Gay groups went stroll- 
ing along the Boulevards in the glow- 
ing sunshine, gazing at the costly 
etrennes displayed in the tempting 
shops : w’omen glancing at the perfect 
attire of other women that passed ; 
men doffing their hats so perpetually 
tliat it almost seemed they might as 
well have kept them off altogether; 
children in their fantastic costumes 
chattering to their mothers and turn- 
ing their little heads on all sides : all, 
men, women, and children apparently 
free from eveiy care, save that of plea- 
sure, which constitutes so observable 
a feature in Parisian life. 

Amidst the crowd, passing onwards 
with a listless step, as if pleasure had 
no part in his heart and he had no use 
for etrennes, was a solitaiy individual : 
a distinguished looking man of pleas- 
ing features and altogether refined face, 
whom few of the traversers couhl have 
mistaken for aught but an English- 
man. His mourning apparel and a 


60 


WITHIN T II E :\I A Z E. 


certain air of sadnes.-^ that pervaded 
his face seemed to be in unison. Sev- 
eral women, ingrained coquettes from 
tlieir birth, as Frencli women nearly 
always are born to be, threw glances 
of admiration at the handsome man, 
in spite of the fact that their husbands 
— for that one day — were at their side; 
and wondered what near relative he 
' had lost. But the gentleman passed 
on his listless way, seeing them not, 
and utterly unconscious that any an- 
swering glances from his own eyes were 
coveted. It was Sir Karl Andinnian. 

Close upon the burial of his ill-fated 
brother Adam, IMrs. Andinnian, pros- 
trate with grief and trouble, took to 
confine herself to her own a[)artment 
at Foxwood Court. Karl found him- 
self nearly altogether excluded from her 
presence. Even at meals she declined 
to join him, and caused them to be 
served for herself apart. Do you 
wish me away from Foxwood ? ” Karl 
one day asked her. I do : 1 would 
be entirely alone,” was her reply. “I 
am aware that Foxwood is yours now, 
Karl, and you may think I have no 
right to express a hint that you might 
for a time leave it ; but I feel that the 
chance of my regaining strength and 
spirits would be greater if left entirely 
to m3’self : your presence here is a 
strain upon me.” ^ 

The answer was to Karl welcome as 
sunshine in harvest. He had been 
longing to travel ; to tiy and find some 
relief from his thoughts in hitherto 
untrodden scenes : consideration for 
his mother — the consciousness that it 
would be wrong both in duty and affec- 
tion to leave her — had alone prevented 
liis proposing it. Within four-and- 
twenty hours he had quitted Foxwood. 

But Karl was not so soon to quit 
England. Various matters had to be 
settled in regard to the estate ; and 
when he reached London his lawyers, 
Plunkett and Plunkett, said they 
should want him for a little while. 
The crime committed by Sir Adam so 
immediate!}’ upon the death of Sir Jo- 
seph, had caused a vast deal of neces- 
sary business to remain in abeyance. 
Certain indispensable law proceedings 


to be gone through, had to be gone 
through Tiow. So Karl Andinnian 
perfoice took up his temporary abode 
in London ; and at the end of a week 
or two he crossed over the water, Vien- 
na being his first halting place. The 
sojourn there of a former brother offi- 
cer, Captain Lamprey, who had Immui 
K arl’s chiefest friend and stuck to him 
in his misfortunes, induced it. Ca[)- 
tain Lamprey was staying in Vienna 
with his newly-married wife, and he 
wrote to ask Karl to join them. Karl 
did so. Captain Lamprey’s term of 
leave expired the end of December. 
He and his wife were going home to 
spend the Christmas, and Karl accom- 
panied them as fiir as Paris. jMrs. 
Andinnian, in answer to a question 
from Karl, whether she would like him 
to return to her for Christmas, had 
given him a resolute and ungracious No. 

So here he was in Paris. It was all 
the same to him ; this resting-place ( r 
that resting-place. His life had been 
blighted in more ways than one. Of 
Luc}^ Cleeve he thought still a great 
deal too much for his peace. She was 
far enough removed from him in all 
senses of the word. In a letter re- 
ceived b}^ Captain Lamprey from some 
friends in AVitichester, it was stated 
that the Cleeves were wintering in 
Egypt. Where Karl’s own place of 
sojourn was next to be he had not de- 
cided,- but his thoughts rather turned 
towards every chief continental city 
that was famed for its gallery of paint- 
ings. Karl had the e^’e of a true art- 
ist : to gaze at good paintings was now 
the onl}^ pleasure of his life. He had. 
not yet anything like done with those 
in Paris and Versailles. 

On his course along the Boulevards, 
passed he. Now and again his ej’es 
turned towards the lovely etrennes 
with a longing; once in a way, when 
the throngs allowed him he halted to 
look and admire. A longing to buy 
(Etrennes himself, and that he had 
some one to give them to when bought. 
It was not well possible for any body 
to feel more completel}’’ isolated from 
the ha[)p3’ world than did Karl Andin- 
nian. 


IN THE AVENUE D’ANTIN. 


61 


How d'ye do, Sir Karl ? Cliarm- 
in;]: day for the lioliday, is it not I’’ 

Sir Karl made some answering 
assent, raised his hat, bowed, and 
passed on. The remark had come from 
an Englisliman with whom he had a 
sliglit acquaintance, wlio had come oat 
si 1 op-gazing with his flock of daugh- 
ters. 

He went straight home then to his 
hotel — Hotel Montaigne, Kue Mon- 
taigne. As he crossed the courtyard, 
the landlord — a ponderous gentleman 
with a ponderous watch-chain — came 
out and gave him some letters. From 
some cause the English delivery had 
been late that morning. 

One of the letters was from Captain 
Lamprey, the other from Plunkett and 
Plankett. Neither contained any 
interest; neither thought to wish him 
liappiness for the New Year. It was 
all the same to Karl Andinnian : the 
New Year could not have much happi- 
ness in store for liim. 

He strolled out again, turni?)g his 
steps towards the Champs Elysees. It 
was but one o’clock yet, and * the 
brightest part of the da}". At one of 
the windows of the palace he fancied 
he caught a transient glimpse of the 
Empress. Shortlj" afterwards, the 
peculiar clatter of the Prince Imperial’s 
escort was heard advancing, surround- 
ing the little prince in his carriage. 

The Champs Elysees were bright to- 
daj". Children attired in silks and 
satins were playing in the sun, their 
bonnes sitting b}" in their holiday cos- 
tume. New Year’s Day and All 
Saints’ Day are the two most dressy 
epochs in the year — as everybody 
knows. Invalids sat in the warmth : 
ladies flitted hither and thither like 
gay butterflies. Py a mere chance, 
Karl always thought it so, his eyes fell 
on two ladies seated alone on a distant 
bench. Involuntarily his steps halted; 
his heart leaped up with a joyous 
bound. They were Mrs. and Miss 
Cleeve. 

But, ah ! how ill sh^ looked — Lucy. 
The bounding heart fell again as 
though some dead weight were press- 
ing it. Thin, worn, white ; .with dark 


circles round the eyes, and lips that 
seemed to have no life in them. For a 
moment Karl wondered whether he 
might not approach and question her; 
but he remembered his bargain with 
Colonel Cleeve. 

They did not see him : they were 
looking at some children in front of 
them, playing at Malborough s’en 
va-t-en guerre.” Karl pursued the 
path he was on, which would carry him 
awa}" from their bench at right angles. 

He resolved that if thev saw him he 

•/ 

would go up and speak : if they did 
not, he must continue his way. 

And he had to continue it. jMrs. 
Cleeve, who did not look to be in 
strong health either, seemed absorbed 
by the play and the childish voices 
chanting the chanson ; Luc}" had now 
bent her forehead upon her hand, as 
though some ache were there. Karl 
went on, out of sight, his brow aching 
too. 

Bon jour, monsieur.” 

The salutation, which had a touch 
of surprised pleasure in its tone, came 
from a natt3'-looking little French- 
woman, with a thin red face and 
shrewd grey eyes. She might have 
been given flve-and-thirty 3’ears ; but 
in the register of her native Mairie 
would have been hard upon fort}". 
Sir Karl stopped. She was Luc}"’s 
maid : formerl}" Lucy’s nurse. 

C’est vous, Aglae 1 ” 

‘‘ Mais oui, monsieur.” 

I thought I saw^ ]Mrs. and Miss 
Cleeve sitting on a bench just now,” 
continued Karl, changing his language. 

Are 3’ou sta3dng in Paris ? ” 

“ Oh, very long since,” replied 
Aglae, to whom both languages w'ere 
nearly alike. Our apartment is close 
by, sir — a small house in the Avenue 
d’Antin. The delight to find myself 
in my proper land again, where I can 
go about without one of those vilain 
bonnets, and hear no street gamins hoot 
at me, is untellable.” 

“ I understooil that Colonel Cleeve 
and his famil}" had gone to Eg3'pt for 
the w’inter,” observed Karl. 

“ To Eg3q:>t, or to some other place 
of barbarisme : so it was projected, sir. 


62 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


But my young In6y, !Miss Limy, is not 
strong enough to be taken.’’ 

“What is the matter, with her?” 
asked Karl, with assumed quietness. 

“ The matter ? Oh ! The matter 
is, that she has got no happiness left 
in her heart, sir,” cried Aglae, explo- 
sively, as if in deep resentment against 
things in general. “ It’s dried up. 
And if they don’t mind, she will just 
go unwarningl}^ out of life. That’s 
my opinion : and, mind, sir, I do not 
say it without reason.” 

A sl’ght blush mantled in Karl’s 
face. He seemed to be watching a red 
paper kite, that was sailing beneath 
the blue sky. 

“ They see it now, both of them ; 
the Colonel and IMadame ; they see 
that she’s just slipping nway from 
them, and t/ieT/ are ill. Ah but ! the 
senseless — what you call it? — distinc- 
tions — that the English set up!” 

“But what is the cause?” asked 
Karl. Though it seemed to him that 
he could discern quite well without 
being answered. 

Aglae threw her shrewd eyes into 
his. 

“I think, sir, jmu might tell it for 
yourself, that. She has not been well 
since that fever. She was not well 
before the fever, since- — since about the 
month of May.” 

He drew in his lips. Aglae, with 
native independence, continued to stare 
at him. 

“ Why don’t you call and see her, 
sir ? ” 

“ Because — well, I suppose you 
know, Aglae. I should not be wel- 
come to Colonel and JMrs. Cleeve.” 

“And the poor young lad 3 q who 
never did harm to living soul, is to be 
let shrink down into her grave for the 
sake of English prejudice! I can see. 
I’ve got my wits about me, and have 
seen it all along. My service to you,* 
sir. Bon jour.” 

The maid went on in a rage, her 
daint}’ cap nodding, her smart boots 
going down rather more noisily than 
was needful. Sir Karl walked about 
until the daylight was fading, and 
then strode back ra[)idly to his hotel 
with the air of a man who is about to 


carry out some resolution tliat will 
not wait. He was. A resolution that 
had been floating in his mind before 
he saw Lucy or encountered her maid. 

Colonel Cleeve was seated alone that 
evening in his dining-room in the Ave- 
nue d’Antin, when a letter was deliver- 
ed to him. For a few minuted he let it 
lie unlieeded. The thoughts he was 
buried in wore very sad ones — the}' ran 
on the decaying strength of his only 
daughter. It seemed to him and Mrs. 
Cleeve that unless some v/onderful 
change — say a miracde, for instance — 
inter[)osed, Lucy’s life was not worth 
many weeks’ purchase. They knew 
now — he and his wife — that the part- 
ing with Karl Andinnian had been too 
cruel for her. 

Arousing himself from his gloomy 
visions, the Colonel opened the note — 
which had been left by hand. Why 
here was a strange thing ! — he started 
in surprise. Started when he saw the 
contents of the letter and the signa- 
ture appended. Had the miracle 
come ? 

It was one of the plain, candid, 
straight-forward letters, so characteris- 
tic of Karl Andinnian. He said that 
he had chanced to see ]\Iiss Cleeve 
that day, and he had been shocked by 
her appearance ; that he had happened 
to hear from Aglae subsequently how 
very alarmingly she was failing. He 
went on to add with shri king depre- 
cation, every word of which told of the 
most sensitive refinement, that he 
feared the trouble of last May might 
have had something to do with it, and 
be still telling upon her. He then put 
a statement of his affairs, as to posses- 
sions and income, before Colonel Cleeve 
and asked whether he might presume 
again to address Lucy now that he 
could offer a good settlement and make 
her Lady Andinnian. 

Three times over Colonel Cleeve 
read the note, pausing well to reflect 
between each time. Then he sent for 
his wife. 

“ He is of no family — and there’s that 
dreadful slur upon it besides,’’ remark- 
ed the Colonel talking it over. “ But 
it may be the saving of Lucy’s life.” 

“It is a good letter,” said Mr.s. 


IN THE AVENUE D ’ANT IN. 


63 


Cleeve, reading it through her eye- 
glass. 

It’s as good and proper a letter as 
any j^oung man could write. All his 
instincts are honorable. Some men 
might have written to Lucy herself. 
Putting aside his lacdc of family and 
the other disrepute, we could not wish 
a better son-in-law than Sir Karl An- 
dinnian.” 

Yes/’ deliberated Mrs. Cleeve, 
after a pause. True. The disadvan- 
tages are great: but they seem little 
when balanced against the chance 
of restoring Lucy’s life. She will be 
a baronet’s wife ; she will be sufS- 
ciently rich : and — I think — she will 
be intensely happy.” 

Then I’ll send for him,” Colonel 
Cleeve. 

The interview took place on the fol- 
lowing morning. It was a peculiar 
one. Just as plainly open as Karl 
had been in his letter, so was the Col- 
onel now. 

I think it may be the one chance 
of saving m\^ child’s life,” he said : “for 
there is no denying that she was very 
much attached to you, Sir Karl. Sit- 
ting alone after dinner last evening, I 
was telling myself that nothing short 
of a miracle could help her: the doc- 
tors say they can do nothing, the mal- 
ady is on her mind — though for my 
part I think the chief ill is the weak- 
ness left by that ague-fever. Your let- 
ter came to interrupt my thoughts; 
and when I read it I wondered wheth- 
er that was the miracle.” 

“ If you will only give me Lucy, my 
whole life shall be devoted to her best 
comfort, sir,” he said, in a low tone. 
“ iMy happiness was wrecked equally 
with hers ; but I am a man and there- 
fore stronger to bear.” 

“Nothing would have induced me 
to give her to jmu had your brother 
lived,” resumed the Colonel. “ If I 
am too plain in what I say I must beg 
3mu to excuse it: but it is well that we 
should understand each other thor- 
ough! v. Yourself I like ; I always 
have liked you : but the disgrace re- 
flected upon you was so great while 
your brother was living, a convict, that 


to see Lucy your wife then would I 
think have killed both me and j\[rs. 
Cleeve. Take it at the best, it would 
have embittered our lives forever.” 

“ Had my unfortunate brother lived, 
I should never have attempted to ask 
for her, Colonel Cleeve.” 

“ Right. I have observed that on 
most subjects your ideas coincide with 
rny own. Rather than that — the dis- 
grace to her and to us ; and grievous 
though the affliction it had brought to 
me and her mother — we would rather 
have laid our child to rest.” 

The deep emotion with which Colo- 
nel Cleeve spoke — the generally self- 
contained man whose calmness almost 
bordered on apathy — proved how true 
the words were, and how terribly the 
sense of disgrace would have told upon 
him. 

“But your unhappy brother has 
paid the forfeit of his crimes b}^ death, 
Sir Karl : and it is to be hoped and 
expected that in time the remembrance 
of him and of what he did will die out 
of people’s minds. . Therefore we have 
resolved to trust to this and give you 
Lucy. It will be better than to let 
her die.” 

Sir Karl Andinnian drew in his 
slender lips. But that he had passed 
through a course of most bitter humil- 
iation — - and that, wherever it falls, 
seems for the time to wash out pride — 
he might have shown resentment at 
the last words. The Colonel saw he 
felt the sting : and he wished it had 
not been his province to inflict it. 

“It was best to explain this, Sir 
Karl. Pardon me for its sound of 
harshness. And now that it is over 
and done with, let me sa}" that never 
for a moment have I or Mrs. Cleeve 
blamed y()u. It was not your fault 
that your brother lost himself ; neith- 
er could you have helped it: and we 
have both felt almost as sorry for you 
as though you had been a relative of 
our own. I beg that henceforth his 
name may never be mentioned between 
yon and us : the past, so far as regard.-? 
him, must be as though it had never 
been. Will you see Lucy ? ” 

“ If I may,” replied Karl, a smile 


64 


THE MAZE. 


SM^'ceeding to the sadness on his face. 

Does she know I am here ? ’’ 

She knows nothing. Her mother 
tlionght it mi gilt be better tliat I 
sliould see you first. A^ou can tell her 
all yourself, Sir Karl. But mind jmu 
do it quietl}’, for she is very weak.’^ 

Lucy happened to be alone in the 
salon. She sat in a great red velvet 
arm-chair as big as a canopy, looking 
at the pretty etrenne her mother had 
given her on the previous day — a 
bracelet of links studded with tur- 
quoise and a drooping turquoise heart. 
A smile of gratitude parted her lips; 
though tears stood in her eyes, for she 
did not believe she should live to wear 
it long. 

Lucy,” said her father, looking in 
as he opened the door, 1 have 
bronelit you a visitor who has called — 
Sir Karl Andinnian.” 

Luc}^ rose in trembling astonish- 
ment ; the morocco case, which had 
been on her lap, falling to the ground. 
She wore a dress of violet silk, and 
Agiae had folded about her a white 
shawl — for chill ness was present still. 
Karl advanced, and the Colonel shut 
them in together. 

He took both her hands in his, slip- 
ping the bracelet on to her attenuated 
wrist, — and quietly lield them. The 
poor wan face and the hectic color Iiis 
presence had called up, had all his 
attention just then. 

I saw you in the Champ El^’sees 
yesterday, Lucy.- It pained me very 
much to see you so much changed.” 

Did you see me ? I was there 
with mamma. It is the fever I had 
ill the summer that hangs about me 
and does not let me 3"et get strong.” 

‘‘ Is it nothinr/ else, Lucj^ ? ” 

The hectic deepened to crimson. 
The soft brown eyes drooped beneath 
the gaze of his. 

‘*1 fancied there might be another 
cause for it, Lucy; and I have ven- 
tured to sa^^ so to Colonel Cleeve. He 
agrees with me.” 

You — 3mu were not afraid to call 
here*!”’ she exclaimed, as if the fact 
were a subject of wonder. 

What I bad to say to Colonel 


Cleeve I wrote by letter. After tliat 
he invited me to call.”* 

Karl sat down on the red sofa oppo- 
site the chair, and put Liuw bv him, 
his arm entwining her waist. “I 
want jmu,” he said, to tell me ex- 
actly what it is that keeps ^mu from 
getting strong, Luc}’.” 

But I cannot tell you, for T douT 
know,” she answered with a little sob. 

I wish I could get well, Karl — for 
poor papa and mamma’s sake.” 

Do jmu think 1 could do anything 
towards the restoration, Lucy ? ” he 
continued, drawing her closer to his 
heart. 

What could you do ? ” 

“ Watch you, and tend vou, and love 
you. And — and make you my wife.” 

“ Don’t jest, Karl,” she said whis- 
pering and trembling. “You know it 
ma}^ not be.” 

“ But if Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve say 
that it may be ? ” 

The tone of his voice was redolent 
of anvthing but jesting: it was one 
of deep truthful emotion. Lucy look- 
ed questioningly uj) at him. 

“Oh Karl, don’t play with me! 
What do you mean ? ” 

He caught the sweet face and held 
it to his. His own hands were trem- 
bling, his face was pale as hers. But 
she could not mistake his grave ear- 
nestness. 

“ It means, my darling, that you are 
to be mine for ever. My wife : Lad}^ 
Andinnian. They are going to give 
you to me : your father brought me 
here that I might m^^self break it to 
you.” 

A minute’s doubting look ; a slight 
shiver as if the joy were too great ; 
and then with a soft sigh she let tier 
head fall on his breast — its future rest- 
ing place. 

“ And what’s this that j’ou were 
looking at, Luc}” ? ” he asked after a 
while, turning the jirett}’ bracelet 
round and round her wrist. 

“ Mamma bought it me 3"esterday 
for my Kew Year’s etrenne. I was 
thinking — before 3^11 came — that I 
might not live to wear it.” 

“ I was thinking 3’esterday, Lucy’, 


DOWN AT F O X W O O D. 


65 


as I walked along the Boulevards that 
I would give a great deal to have some 
one to buy etrennes for. It is not too 

late, is it ? Meanwhile ’’ 

Breaking oti‘ this sentence he took a 
very rare ring from his finger, one of 
the most brilliant of opals encompass- 
ed by diamonds. She had never seen 
liim wear it before. ^ 

“ Oh, how very beautiful ! ” she ex- 
claimed. as it flashed in a gleam of re- 
flected sunl ight. 

“ I do not give it to you, Lucy/' he 
said, putting it upon her finger. “ I 
lend it to you until I can find another 
fit to replace it. Tiiat may be in a 
day or so. This ring was my fathers: 
made a present of to him by an East- 
ern Sultan, to whom lie was able to 
render an essential service. At my 
father’s death it came to my brother: 
and — later — to me.” 

KarPs voice dropped as he was con- 
cluding. Lucy Cieeve felt for him ; 
she knew what he must feel at the al- 
lusion. She glided her hand into his 
unsought. 

So until then this shall be the 
earnest of our betrothal, Lucy. You 
must take care of it : and of my love.” 

‘‘ Karl, I think Heaven must have 
been at work for us ! ” she softly 
whispered, her eyes wet with tears of 

joy- 


CHAPTER IX. 

DOWN AT FOXWOOD. 

As Sir Karl Andinnian was leaving 
the house, he saw Colonel and Mrs. 
Cieeve in the dining-parlor. The lat- 
ter held out her hand to Karl. He 
clasped it warmly. 

am glad it is settled,” she said 
in a low, impressive tone. ‘'You will 
take good care of her, I know, and 
make her happ3^” 

“ With the best energies of my heart 
and life,” was his earnest answer. 
‘‘ Dear Mrs. Cieeve, I can never suffi- 
ciently thank you.” 

The voices penetrated to a dressing- 
chamber at the end of the short passage, 
4 


whose door was ajar. A lady in trav- 
eling attire peeped out. it was ]\Iiss 
]>lake ; who had just arrived from 
England somewhat unexpectedly. 
Karl passed out at the front door. IMiss 
Blake’s eyes, wide open with astonish- 
ment, followed him. 

“Surely that was Captain Andin- 
nian!” she exclaimed, advancing to- 
wards the dining-room. 

“ Captain Andinnian that used to he, 
Theresa,” replied Colonel (heeve. . 
“ He is Sir Karl Andinnian now.” 

“ Yes, yes : but one is a[)t to forget 
new titles,” was her impatient rejoin- 
der. “I heard he was staying in 
Paris. What should bring him in 
this house ? Is he allowed to call at 
it?” * 

“ F’or the future he will be. He is 
to have Lucy. Mrs. Cieeve will tell 
you about it,” concluded the Colonel : 
“ J must write my letters.” 

Mrs. Cieeve was smiling meaninglv. 
Theresa Blake, utterly puzzled, looked 
from one to the other. 

“ Have Lucy 1 ” she cried. “ Have 
her for what ? ” 

“Why to he his wife,” said Mrs. 
Cieeve. “ Could yon not have guessed, 
Theresa?” 

“To — be — his — wife!” echoed Miss 
Blake. “ Karl Andinnian’s ! No, noj 
it cannot be.” 

“But it is, Theresa. It has been 
settled to-da3\ Sir Karl has now gone 
out from his first interview with her. 
Whv, my dear, I quite believe that if 
we had not brought it about, Lucy 
would have died. They ai-e all the 
world to each other.” 

Miss Blake went back to her room 
with her shock of agony. From white 
to scarlet, from scarlet to white, chang- 
ed her face, as she sat down to take in 
the full sense of the news, and what it 
indicted on her. A cry went up aloud 
to Heaven for pit3y as she realized 
the extreme depth of her desolation. 

This second blow was to Miss Blake 
nearl3^ if not quite as cruel as the first 
had been. It stunned her. The hope, 
that Karl Andinnian would return to 
her, had been dwelt on and cherished as 
the weeks had gone on until it became 


WITIIT^^ THE MAZE. 


as a certainty in her inmost heart. Of 
course his accession to wealtli and lion- 
ors augmented the desirability of a 
union with him, thougli it could not 
augment her love. find that he 

was indeed to have Lucy was truly ter- 
rible. 

I^Iiss Blake had undergone disap- 
pointment on another score. The new 
inodes of worship in Mr. Blake’s 
church, together with the Beverend 
Guy Cattacomb, had collapsed. Mat- 
ters had gone on swimmingly until the 
month of December. Close upon 
Chistmas the rector came home : it 
should perhaps he mentioned that his 
old curate Inul died. Mr. Blake was 
liardly fit to return to his duties ; but 
the reports made to him of the state of 
things in his church ^they had been 
withheld during his want of strength), 
brought him back in grief and shame. 
}Iis "first act was to dismiss the Bev. 
Guy Cattacomb : his second was to 
sweep away innovations and restore 
the service to what it used to be. Miss 
])lake angrily resented this: but she 
was helpless to hinder it. Her occu- 
pation in Winchester was gone ; she 
was for the present tired of the place, 
and considered whither her steps should 
he next directed. She had a standing 
invitation to visit the Cleeves, and felt 
inclined to do so, for she loved the gay 
Parisian capital with all her heart. 
Chance threw her in the wa}" of Cap- 
tain Lamprey. She heard from him 
that Sir Karf Andinnian was in Paris; 
and it need not be stated that the in- 
formation caused the veering scale to 
go down with a run. Without writing 
to apprise Colonel and iMrs. Cleeve, she 
started. And, in the first few minutes 
of her arrival at their house, she was 
gratified by the sight of Ivarl ; and 
lieard at the same time the startling 
tidings that destroyed her hopes for 
ever. 

It was like a fate. Com me un sort,* 
as Mademoiselle Aglae might have 
phrased it. Only a few months before, 
when Miss Blake got home to Win- 
cliester from Paris, her heart leaping 
and bounding with its love f*)r Karl 
Andinnian, and with the prospect of 


ae»“ain meeting him, she had been struck 
into stone at finding that his love was 
Lucy’s; so now, hastening to Paris 
from Winchester with somewhat of the 
same kind of feelings, and believing 
he had bade adieu to Lucy for ever, 
she found that the aspect of matters 
had altered, and Lucy was to be the 
wife of his bosom. ^Iiss Blake s state 
of mind was not an enviable one. And 

whereas she had hitherto vented her 

silent anger on Lucy, woman fashion, 
she now turned it on Sir Karl. 

Waiting until the trace of some of 
the anguish had passed from her white 
face, until she had smoothed her hair 
and changed her traveling dress, and 
regained composure of manner, she 
went into the presence of Colonel and 
Mrs. Cleeve. They were yet in the 
dining-room, talking of Lucy s future 
prospects ; getting, in fact, with every 
word more and more reconciled to 
them. 

“ The alliance will be an everlasting 
disgrace to you,” quietly spoke Miss 
Blake. ‘‘ It will degrade Lucy.” 

I do not see it, Theresa,” said the 
Colonel. “ I do not think any sensible 
people would see it in that light. And 
consider the state of Lucy’s health ! 
Something had to he sacrificed to that. 
This may, and I believe will, restore 
her : otherwise she would have died. 
The love they bear for each other is 
marvellous — quite out of the common. 

Theresa bit her pale lips to get a 
little color in them. “A man whose 
brother was tried and condemned for 
wilful murder, and who died a convict 
striving to escape from his lawful fet- 
ters ! He is no proper match for Lucy 
Cleeve.” 

“The man is dead, Theresa.^ Ilis 
crimes and mistakes have died witli 
him. Had he lived, the convict, we 
would have followed Lucy to her grav(^ 
rather than allowed one of the Andin- 
nian familv to have entered ours.” 

Theresa played with a tremendously 
big cross of l>lack wood, that she wore 
appended to a long necklace of blat-k 
t„_.ads— the whole "thing most incon- 
gruously unbecoming, and certainl\ 
not in ‘the best of taste in any point 


DOWN AT FOXWOOD. 


67 


of view. That she looked pale, vexed, 
disturbed, Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve 
saw : and they set it down in their 
honest and simple hearts to her anxie- 
ty for Lucy. 

Against Sir Karl Andinnian no- 
thing can be urged, Theresa: and his 
brother, as I saj^ is dead/^ returned 
the Colonel. ^^In himself he is every- 
thing that can be desired: a sweet- 
tempered, honorable gentleman. He 
is a baronet of the realm now, you 
know ; and his proposed settlement on 
Lucy is good.’’ 

I don’t call him rich,” doggedly 
returned Miss Blake, Compare him 
with some baronets.” 

“And compare him, on the other 
hand, with others ! His income aver- 
ages about seven thousand a-year, I 
believe. Out of that, he will accord 
his mother a good portion while she 
lives. Compare that with my income, 
Theresa — as we are on the subject of 
comparisons; I cannot count anything 
like two thousand.” 

“Are yon sure that he is worthy of 
Lucy in other ways?” resumed Miss 
Blake, her tone unpleasantlj" signifi- 
cant. “ I have heard tales of him.” 

“ What tales ? ” 

“ Words dropped from the officers at 
Winchester. To the effect that he is 
loildP 

“ I can hardly believe that he is,” 
said the Colonel uneasil}^ after a pause. 

“ I should dislike to give Lucy to any 
man of that kind.” 

“ Oh well, it ma}'' not be true,” re- 
turned Miss Blake, her suggestive con- 
science reminding her that she was 
saying more than she ought: or, rath- 
er, giving a coloring to it that she was 
n||^ altogether justified in. “'You 
know little Dennet. More than a year 
ago ; it was before I went abroad ; he | 
was talking at the rectory one day 
about the officers generally, hinting 
that they were unsteady. I said — of 
course it was an absurd thing for me 
to say — that I felt sure Mr. Andinnian 
was steady: and Dennet rejoined in a 
laughing kind of way that Andinnian 
was as wild as the rest. That’s the 
truth,” concluded Miss Blake honestly, 
in obedience to her conscience. 


Not very much, you will think ; but 
Colonel Cleeve did not like the doubt 
it implied ; and he resolved to set it at 
rest, if questioning could do it. That 
same evening, when Karl arrived to 
dinner, as invited, the 'Colonel caused 
him to be shown into a little apart- 
ment, that was as much a boot closet 
as anything else : but they were 
cramped for room in tlie Avenue d’An- 
tin. Colonel Cleeve was standing by 
the fire. He and Karl were very 
much alike in one particular — that of 
unsophistication. In his direct, iion- 
reticent manner, he mentioned the 
hint he had received, giving as nearly 
as possible the words Tlietesa had 
given. 

“ Is it true, or is it not. Sir Karl ? ” 

“ It is not true : at least in the 
sense that I fear you may have been 
putting upon it,” was the reply ; and 
Karl Andinnian’s truthful eyes went 
straight into the Colonel’s. “ When 
I was with the regiment I did some 
foolish .things, sir, as the others did, 
especially when I first joined : a young 
fellow, planted down in the midst of 
careless men can hardly avoid it, how- 
ever true his own habits and principles 
may be. When ray father \uy on his 
dying bed, he gave me some wise 
counsel. Colonel Cleeve.” 

“ Did vou follow it? ” 

%/ 

“ If I did not quite always, I at 
any rate mostly tried to. On my 
word of honor. Colonel Cleeve, I have 
not gone into the reckless folly that 
some men go. I can truly say that I 
have never done a wrong thing but I 
have been bitterly ashamed of it after- 
wards, whatever its nature ; and — and 
— have asked forgiveness of God.” 

His voice died away with the last 
hesitating sentence. That he was as- 
serting the truth as before Heaven, 
Colonel Cleeve saw, and judged him 
arightlj". He took Karls hands in 
his : he felt that he was one amid a 
thousand. 

“ God keep you, for a true man and 
a Christian ! ” he whispered. “ I 
could not desire one more worthy than 
you for my daughter.” 

When they reached the drawing- 
room, Lucy was there : Lucy who bad 


V 


68 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


not joined in the late dinner for some 
time past. She wore pink silk; she 
had a transient color in her face, and 
lier sweet brown eyes lighted up at 
sight of Karl. As he bent low to 
speak to her, Theresa Blake covered 
her brow, as though she had a pain 
there. 

JMadame est servie.’^ 

Sir Karl advanced to Mrs. Cleeve, 
as in duty bound. She put him from 
her with a smile. I am going on by 
m^’self, Sir Karl. Lucy needs support, 
and you must give it to her. The 
Colonel has to bring IMiss Blake.’^ 

And as Sir Karl took her, nothing 
loth, under his arm, and gave her the 
support tenderly, Miss Luc}^ blushed 
the rosiest blush that had been seen in 
her face for many a month. Madem- 
oiselle Aglae superintending the ar- 
rangement of the round table, had 
taken care that their seats should be 
side hy side. Theresa’s fascinated 
eyes, opposite, looked at them more 
than there was any need for. 

‘‘Lucy has got a prize,” whispered 
the Colonel to her, as she sat on his 
right hand. “ A prize, if ever there 
was one. I have been talking to him 
about that matter, Theresa, and he 
comes out nobly. And — do you see 
how changed Lucy is onl}' in this one 
da}^ ? — how well and happy she looks? 
Just think! it was only this time last 
night that his note was brought.” 

JMiss Blake did see. Saw a great 
deal more than was agreeable ; the un- 
mistakable signs of mutual love amidst 
the rest. Her own feelings were 
changing; and she felt that she was 
not far off hating her heart’s cherished 
idol, Karl Andinnian, with a jealous 
and bitter and angry hatred. 

It was decided that the marriage 
should take place without delaj" ; at 
least, with as little delay as Luc3"’s 
health should allow. Perhaps in Feb- 
ruary. Lay b}^ daj^, she grew better : 
appetite returned, spirits returned, the 
longing to get well returned : all three 
ver}^ essential elements in the cause. 
At a week or two’s end Lucy was so 
much stronger that the time was fi- 
nally fixed for February, and Sir Karl 
WTote to Plunkett and Plunkett to 


I prepare the deeds of settlement. He 
also wrote to his mother — which he 
had somewhat held back from doing : 
for instinct told him the news would 
terribly pain her ; that she would ac- 
cuse him of being insensible to the re- 
cent loss of his brother. And he found 
that he had judged correctly ; for Mrs. 
Andinnian did not vouchsafe him any 
answer. 

It grieved him much : but he did 
not dare to write again. It must be 
remembered that the relations between 
Karl and his mother were quite excep- 
tional ones. She had kept him at a 
distance all his life, had repressed his 
instincts of affection ; in short, had 
held him in complete subjection. If 
she chose not to accord him an an- 
swer, Karl knew that he should onl}^ 
make matters worse hy writing to ask 
why she would not. 

“ He has forgotten his ill-fated bro- 
ther: he casts not a thought to my 
dreadful sorrow ; he is hasting with 
this indecent haste to hear the sound 
of his own gay wedding bells!” As 
surely'' as though he had heard her 
speak the complaints, did Karl picture 
to himself the manner of them. In 
good truth, he would not have prefer- 
red to marry so soon himself ; but it 
was right that private feelings should 
give way to Luc^'. They were in a 
hurry to get her to a warmer place; and 
it was deemed better that Karl should 
go with her as her ^ husband than as 
her lover. In the latter case. Colonel 
and Mrs. Cleeve must have gone — and 
he, the Colonel, wanted to be in Eng- 
land to attend to some matters of busi- 
ness. Sir Karl and his wife were to 
sta}" away a year ; perhaps more ; the 
doctors thought it might be well for 
Lucy. Karl was only too glad to ac- 
quiesce ; for the arrangement, as he 
candidly avowed, would leave him at 
liberty to allow his mother a year’s 
undisturbed possession of Foxwood. 
And so the month of January came to 
an end, Lucy gaining ground regularly 
and quickl3\ As to Miss Blake, she 
stayed where she was, hardening her 
heart more and more against Karl 
Andinnian. 

On the Gth of February Sir Karl 


DOWN AT 

went to London. The marriage was 
to take place in Paris on the 12th. 
He liad various matters to transact, 
especially with his lawyers. The 
deeds of settlement on Lucy, previous- 
ly despatched to Paris by Plunkett 
and Plunkett, had been already signed. 
Karl wrote a short note to his mother, 
saying he was in London and should 
run down to Fox wood and see her. 
In her reply, received by return of 
post,*she begged he would not go down 
to Foxwood, as it might “only upset 
her’’ — if, the words ran, she might 
so far presume to deny his entrance to 
his own house. 

It was rather a queer letter. Karl 
thought so as he studied it. By one 
of tl)e sentences in it, it almost seemed 
as though Mrs. Andinnian were not 
aware of his projected marriage. The 
longer he reflected, the more desirable 
did it appear to him that he should see 
her. So he wrote again, craving par- 
don for disobeying her, but saying he 
must come down. About six o’clock 
in the evening he reached Foxwood. 
It was the last day of his stay; on 
the following one he must depart for 
Paris. A servant-maid admitted him, 
and Hewitt came out of the dining- 
room. The mail’s face wore a look of 
surprise. 

“ I suppose my mother is expecting 
me, Hewitt.” 

“ I think not, Sir Karl. I took a 
telegram to the station this morning, 
sir, to stop your coming,” he added in 
a confidential tone, as he opened the 
door to announce his master. 

Mrs. Andinnian was dining in soli- 
tary state in the solitary dining-room. 
She let fall her knife and fork, and 
rose up with an angry glare. Her 
dress was of the deepest mourning, all 
ciupe. Save the widow’s cap, she had 
not put on mourning so deep for her 
husband as she wore for her ill-fated 
son. 

“ How dared you come, after my 
prohibitory telegram, Karl ? ” she ex- 
claimed imperiousl3^ 

have had no telegram from you, 
mother,” was his reply. “None what- 
ever.” 


FOXWOOD. 69 

“ One was sent to you this morn- 
ing.” 

“ I missed it, then. I have been about 
London all day, and did not return to 
the hotel before coming here.” 

He had been standing close to her 
with his hand extended. She looked 
fixedl}" at him for a few moments, and 
then allowed her hand to meet his. 

“ It cannot be helped, now ; but I am 
not well enough to entertain visitors,” 
she remarked. “ Hewitt, Sir Karl will 
take some dinner.” 

You surely do not look on me as a 
visitor,” he said, smiling, and taking 
the chair at the table that Hewitt 
placed. But, for all the smile, there was 
pain at his heart. My stay will be 
a very short one, mother, for I must be 
away long before dawn to-morrow morn- 
ing.”^ 

“ The shorter the better,” answered 
Mrs. Andinnian. And Sir Karl could 
not help feeling that it was scarcely 
the thing to say to a man coming to 
his own house. 

He observed that only Hewitt was 
waiting at the table: that no one else 
was called to bring in things required 
by the fact of his unexpected intrusion. 
Hewitt had to go backwards and for- 
wards. During one of these absences 
Karl asked his mother why she should 
have objected to his coming. 

“ You have been told,” she answered. 
“ I am not in the state to bear the least 
excitement or see any one. No visitor 
whatever is welcomed at Foxwood. 
My troubles are great, Karl.” 

“ I wish I could lighten them for you 
mother.” 

“ You only increase them. But not 
wdllingU^ I am sure, Karl. No fault 
lies with you.” 

It was the kindest thing she had 
said to him. As they went on talking, 
Karl became more and more con- 
vinced, from chance expressions, that 
she was in ignorance of his engagement 
and approaching marriage. When 
Hewitt had finally left them together 
after dinner, Karl told her of it. It 
turned out that Mrs. Andinnian had 
never received the. letter : though where 
the fault lay, Karl could not divine. 


70 


WITJEIIN THE MAZE. 


He remembered that be bad given it 
to tlie waiter of tlie Hotel Montaigne 
to post — a man he lia(i always found 
to be verj^ exact. 'Whether he had 
neglected it, or whether the loss lay at 
the door of the post itself, the fact was 
the same — it had never reached Mrs. 
Andinnian. 

She started violently when Karl 
told her. He noticed it particularly 
because she was in general so cold and 
calm a woman. After staring at Karl 
for u minute or two she turned her 
gaze to the fire and sat in silence, lis- 
tening to him. 

“ Married ! she exclaimed, when 
he had stopped. ‘‘ Married ! — and 
your brother scarcely cold in his dis- 
honored grave ! It must not be, Sir 
Karl.’^ 

Sir Karl explained to her why it 
must be. Lucy’s health required a 
more genial climate, and he had to 
take her to one without delay. When 
respect for the dead and consideration 
for the living clash, it was right and 
just that the former should give way, 
he observed with emphasis. Mrs. An- 
dinnian did not interrupt him ; as he 
went on to state the arrangements he 
had completed as to Lucy’s settlement. 
He then intimated in the most deli- 
cate words he could use, that their 
proposed prolonged residence abroad 
would afford his mother at present un- 
disturbed possession of Foxwood ; and 
he mentioned the income (a very lib- 
eral one) he had secured to her for life. 

She never answered a word. She 
made no comment whatever, good or 
bad ; but sat gazing into the fire as be* 
fore. Karl thought she was mortally 
offended with him. 

He said he had a letter to write. 

Andinni in gave a dash at the bell 
and ordered Hewitt to place the ink 
and paper before Sir Karl. When the 
tea came in she spoke a few words — 
asking whether he would take sugar, 
and such like — but, that excepted, 
maintained her silence. Afterwards, 
she sat at the fire again in her arm- 
chair; buried in disturbed thought; 
and then she rose to pace the room 
with uncertain steps, like one who 


is racked by anxious perplexity. At 
first Karl felt both annoyed and vexed, 
for he thought she was making more of 
the matter than she need have done.; 
but he soon began to doubt whether 
she had not some trouble upon her 
apart from him and his concerns. A 
word, that unwittingly escaped her, 
confirmed him in this. 

Mother,” he said, ‘^3^011 seem to be 
in great distress of your own : for I 
cannot believe that any proceedings of 
mine would thus disturb you.’’ 

I am, Karl. I am.” 

Will 3’’ou not let me share it, then ? 
and, if possible, soothe it ? You will 
find me a true son.” 

Mrs. Andinnian came back to her 
seat and replied calml3^ ^‘If you 
could help me in an}^ wa}", Karl, 3mu 
should hear it. But 3mu cannot — 3mu 
cannot that I can see. Man is born 
to trouble, you know’, as the sparks fl}'’ 
upwards.” 

“ I thought that 1 had offended 3mu : 
at least, pained 3^11 113’ my coming 
marriage. It grieved me very’ much.” 

‘‘ My trouble is m3’ owm,” she an- 
sw’ered. 

Karl could not imagine wliat it could 
be. He tried to think of various causes 
— just as w'e all do in a similar case — 
and rejected them again. She had al- 
wa3’s been a strangelv^ independent, se- 
cretive woman : and such women, giv- 
en to act with the daring independence 
of man, but possessing not man’s free- 
dom of power, may at times drift into 
troubled seas. 

Karl greatly feared it must be some- 
thing of this kind — Debt? Well, he 
did not think it could be this. He had 
never known of an3’ outlets of expense : 
and surel3^, if this were so, his mother 
w’ould apply to him to release her. 
But, still the idea kept coining back 
again : for he felt sure she liad not 
given the true reason for wishing to 
keep him awav’ from Foxwood. Had 
it come to the point i\\^t duns present- 
ed themselves at the house, and that it 
w'as feared he might see them ? Sunk 
in these thoughts, he hapi)ened to raise 
his glance and caught his mother’s 
sharp eyes inquisitively fixed on him. 


MRS. AXDINNIAN’S SECRET. 


71 


^^Wliat are you deliberating upon, 
Karl ? ’’ 

I was wondering what your care 
could be ? '' 

‘^Better not wonder. You could 
not help me. Had my brave Adam 
been alive, I might have told him. 
He was daring, Karl : you are not.’^ 

Hot daring, mother ? 1? I think 
1 am sulhciently so. At any rate, I 
could be as daring as the best in your 
interests.’^ 

Perhaps you might. But it would 
not serve me, you see. And sympathy 
from you — the sympathy that my poor 
lost Adam gave me — 1 have never 
from you sought or wished for.” 

She was plain at any rate. Karl 
felt the stab, just as he had felt many 
other of her stabs during his life. 
Mrs. Andinnian shook off her secret 
thoughts with a kind of shiver ; and, 
to banish them, began talking with 
Karl of ordinary things. 

‘^What has become of Ann Hop- 
ley?” he enquired. ‘^She was much 
attached to you: I thought perhaps 
y’ou might have kept her on.” 

‘^Ann Hople}^? — oh, the servant I 
had at Weymouth. Ko, I did not 
keep her on, Karl. She went to her 
husband.” 

At ten o’clock Mrs. Andinnian wish- 
ed him good-night and good-bye, and 
retired. Karl sat on, thinking and 
wondering. He was sorry she did not 
place confidence in him, and so give 
him a chance of helping her: but she 
never had, and he supposed she never 
would. At times — and this was one — 
it had almost seemed to Karl as though 
she could not be h.s mother. 

» 

CHAPTER X. 

MRS. ANDINXIAn’s SECRET. 

^‘Wtll you take anything. Sir 
Karl ? ” 

The question came from Hewitt, 
who had looked in to ask for orders for 
the morning, arousing his master from 
a curious train of thought. 

1 don’t mind a drop of hot brandy 


and water, Hewitt. Half a glass. 
Something or other seems to have 
given me the shivers. Is it a cold 
night ? ” 

‘‘ Ko, Sir Karl ; the night’s rather 
warm than cold.” 

Has my mother any particular 
trouble or worry upon her, Hewitt, do 
yon know?” he asked, as he watched 
the mixing of the spirit and water. 
^•She seems to be very much put out;” 

have noticed it myself, sir; but 
I don’t know what it is,” was the an- 
swer. For my part, I don't think she 
has been at all herself siiute Sir Adam’s 
death. Loving him as she did — wh}^ 
of course, sir, it was a dreadful blow; 
one not to be got over easily.” 

^^And that’s true, Hewitt. How 
many servants have you here?” re- 
sumed Sir Karl, asking the question 
not reall}" with any particular care to 
know, but simply to turn the subject. 

“ There’s me and two maids, sir.” 

You and two maids!” echoed 
Karl, in surprise. That’s not enough 
for Boxwood. How does the work get 
done ? Why does my mother not keep 
more ? ” 

‘‘ My mistress says she can’t afford 
more, sir,” returned Hewitt, who 
seemed sore upon the point, and spoke 
shortly. 

“ But she can afford more,” return- 
ed Sir Karl, impulsively; ^‘a great 
man}^ more. Her income is a very 
large one now.” 

Hewitt rubbed his bald head with 
an air of perj)lexity. Karl spoke to 
him of things that he would not have 
entered on with any less esteemed and 
faithful servant. Hewitt had been so 
long in the famil 3 ’^ that he seemed like 
an old confidential friend. 

There can be no debts, jmu know, 
Hewitt,” spoke Sir Karj, hastily- fol- 
lowing out aloud a recent thought.; 

Hewitt did not evince any surprise 
whatever. I have fancied that my 
mistress had some embarrassment on 
her mind, sir, such as a debt might 
cause,” was the rejoinder. ‘‘I have 
famued her money goes somewhere 
— though I should never hint at 
such thing to anybody but you, sir; 


WITIIIX THE MAZE. 


por fo yon if yon had not asked me. 
Perliaps Sir Adam left some debts be- 
l)ind him.’’ 

“ No, lie did not, Hewitt. Any 
dobts left by Sir Adam would have 
been paid out of tlie estate before it 
came to me. Plunkett and IMunkett 
informed me at once that there were 
no debts at all : except the costs of the 
trial.*’ 

Then it must he some that have 
cropped up since: that is. the claim 
fv)r them,” surmised Hewitt. ‘‘One 
evening,, sir, when my mistress seemed 
tit to die with trouble, I asked her if 
anything had happened to vex her: 
and she answered- — after looking at me 
sternly in silence — No, nothing fresh ; 
only some sonow of a good many 
years ago. It was the evening after 
tliat gentleman called. Sir Karl, and 
stayed with her so long.” 

‘AVhat gentleman?” asked Sir 
Karl. 

“ Some stranger, sir; I didn’t know 
him. He came up to the house and 
asked for INIrs. Andinnian. I told him 
(they were my general orders) that 
!Mrs. Andinnian was not well enonsrh 
to see visitors. Oh, indeed, he said, 
and asked to come in and write a note. 

I was standing by wlien he began to 
write it, and he ordered me to the 
other end of the room. It seemed to 
me that he wrote but one or two words. 
Sir Karl; not more: quite in a mo- 
ment the paper was folded and sealed 
— for he told me to light the taper. 

‘ There,’ said he, ‘ take that to Mrs. 
Andinnian : I tiiink she’ll see me.’ 
INIy mistress was very angry when I 
took it to her, asking why I disobeyed 
orders ; but when she opened it, her 
face went deadly white, and she bade 
me show the gentleman up to her sit- 
ting-room. He was there about two j 
hours, sir.” 

Sir Karl thought this rather strange. 

“ AVdiat sort of man was he, Hewitt? ” 

“ A well-dressed gentleman, sir ; 
tall. He had had a hurt to his left 
arm, and wore it in a black silk sling. 
When he took it out of the sling to 
seal the note, he could hardly use it at 
ail. .It was that same evening after he 


had been, sir, that my mistress seemed 
so full of trouble.” 

“ Did you hear his name? ” 

“No, sir, I didn’t hear his name. 
A tray of luncheon was ordered up for 
him : and bv the little that I heard 
said when I took it in and fetched it 
away, I gatliered that he was a gentle- 
man applying for the agency of your 
estate.” 

“ l>ut I do not require an agent,*’ 
cried Sir Karl. 

“ Well, sir. I’m sure that’s what the 
gentleman was talking of. And my 
mistress afterwards said a word or two 
to me about the place being neglected 
now Sir Karl was absent, and she 
thought she should appoint an agent to 
look after it.” 

“ Hut tlie place is not neglected,” 
reiterated Sir Karl. “ How long was 
this ago ? ” 

“ About three weeks, sir. Pve not 
heard anything of it since, or seen the 
gentleman. Put I am certain my 
mistress has some secret trouble or 
care, apart from her regret for Sir 
Adam.” 

“ I wish jmu would write to me 
from time to time, and let me know 
how my mother is,” resumed Karl, 
dropping the unsatisfactory subject. 

“ And that I will with pleasure. Sir 
Karl, if you will furnish me wiHi an 
address to write to.” 

“ And be sure, Hewitt, that you send 
to me in any/trouble or sickness. I 
wish my poor mother’s life was a less 
lonely one ! ” 

Sir Karl went up to his room shortly. 
Before he had well closed his door, a 
maid knocked at it, and said Mrs. 
Andinnian wished to see him. Karl 
had supposed his mother to be in bed : 
instead of that, he found her standing 
by the fire in her little sitting-room 
and not undressed. 

“ Shut the door, Karl,” she said — 
and he saw that her face was working 
with some painful emotion. “ I have 
been debating a question with myself 
the better part of this evening, down 
stairs and up — whether or no I shall 
disclose to you the trouble that is upon 
us : and have now resolved to do so. 


MRS. ANDINNIAJ^’S SECRET. 


73 


Of two evils, it may perhaps be the 
least. 

I am very pjlad indeed, ray mother.” 

Hash !” she solemrdy said, lifting 

warning liand. ‘‘Speak not before 
you know. Glad ! It has been consid- 
eration for you, Sir Karl, that has alone 
kept me silent. You have no doubt 
been thinking me unnaturally cold and 
reserved ; but my heart has been ach- 
ing. Aching for jmu. If I have not 
loved you with the passionate love I 
bore for your poor brother — and oh, 
Karl, he was iny firstborn ! — I have 
not been as neglectful of you as 3"ou 
maj’’ imagine. In striving to keep you 
away from Foxwood, I was but anxious 
that your peace should not be imper- 
illed earlier than it w’as obliged to be.” 

“ Let me hear it, mother. I can 
bear it, I daresa>".’’ 

“ You ma^^ hear it, Karl. A man 
can bear most things. But, m3" son, I 
dread to tell jt to 3"ou. Y’^ou will 
regard it as an awful calamity, a fright- 
ful perplexity, and 3mur spirit may 
faint under it.” 

Sir Karl smiled sadl3^ Mother, 
after the calamities I have undergone 
within the past year, I do not think 
Fate can have an3’ worse in store for 
me.” 

“ Wait — and judge. Your anger 
will naturally fall on me, Karl, as the 
chief author of it. Blame me, my son, 
to your hearths content: it is m3" just 
due. I would soften the story to you 
if I knew how : but it admits not of 
softening. What is done cannot 
be undone.” 

Mrs. Andinnian opened the door, 
looked up and down the corridor, shut 
it again, and bolted it. “ I do not need 
to fear eaves-droppers in the house,” 
she observed, “and the doors are 
thick: but this secret is a matter of 
life or death. Sit down there, Karl,” 
— pointing to a chair opposite her 
own. 

“ I would rather stand, mother.” 

“Sit down,” she reiterated: and 
Karl took his elbow from the mantle- 
piece, and obe3"ed her. He did not 
seem very much impressed with what 
he was about to hear : at least not to 


the extent that her preparation seemed 
to justify. Each leaned forward, look- 
ing at the other. Mrs. Andinnian had 
her arms on the elbows of her chair; 
Karl’s were crossed. 

“ First of all, Karl, you will take an 
oath, a solemn vow to God, that you 
will never disclose this secret to any 
human being without my consent.” 

“ Is this necessary, mother? ” 

“ It is necessary for 3"ou and for 
me,” she sharply answered, as if the 
question vexed her. “ I tell 3mu noth- 
ing unless 3mu do.” 

Sir Karl rose, and took the oath. 
Resuming his seat as before, he waited. 
Ko, she could not say it. They sat, 
gazing at each other, she in agitation, 
he in expectancy ; and for a minute or 
two she literally could not sa3" what 
she had to say. It came forth at last. 
Only four words. 

Only four words. But Karl Andin- 
nian as he heard them sprang up with a 
cry : almost as the ill-fated man had 
sprung, Martin Scott, who was shot to 
death by" his brother. 

“Mother! This cannot be true!” 

Mrs. Andinnian went over to him 
and pushed him gently into his chair 
again. “ Hush, Karl; make no noise,” 
she soothingly whispered. “ It would 
not do, you see, for the household to be 
alarmed. 

Mrs. Andinnian went back to her 
seat. Karl sat still, tumultuous ideas 
crowding on him one after another. 

“ Y"ou should have disclosed this to 

me before I engaged myself to marr3",” 

he cried at last with a burst of emo- 
« 

tion. ^ 

“ But don’t 3^ou see, Karl, I did not 
know of your intended marriage. It 
is because you have informed me of it 
to-night that I disclose it now.” 

“ Would you have kept it from me 
always?” 

“ That could not have been. You 
must have heard it some time. Listen, 
Karl : you shall have the story from 
beginning to end.” 

It was one o’clock in the morning, 
before Karl Andinnian quitted his 
mother’s room. His face seemed to 
have aged 3'ears. An3^ amount of per- 




's 


74 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


plexih’ he could liave home for liim- 
self, and borne it calmly ; but he did 
not know how to grap[)le with this. 
For what had been disclosed to liim 
ought to do awa}^ with his marriage. 

He did not attempt to go to bed. 
The whole of the rest of the night he 
paced his room, grievously tormented 
as to what course he should take. He 
knew that in honor he was bound to 
disclose the truth to Colonel Cleeve 
and Lucy ; but this might not be. 
Xot .only was he debarred by his 
oath ; but the facts themselves did 
not admit of disclosure. In the con- 
fusion of his mind he said to his moth- 
er, ]\Iay I not give a hint of this to 
Luc 3’ Cleeve, and let her then take me 
or leave me?” and Mrs. Andinnian 
liad replied by demanding whether he 
was mad. In truth, it would have 
been nothing short of madness. 

What to do? what to do? In dire 
distress Karl Andinnian strode the 
carpet as he asked it. He might 
make some other excuse, if indeed lie 
could invent one, and write to break 
off the marriage — for, break it off to 
their faces he could not. But, what 
would be the effect on Luc}^ ? Colo- 
nel Cleeve had not conceale<l that the\" 
gave her to him to save her life. Were 
he to abandon her in this cowardly and 
heartless manner, now at the eleventh 
liOLir, when they were literally prepar- 
ing the meats for the breakfast table, 
when Luc3’’s wedding robe and wreath 
were spread out ready to be worn, it 
might throw her back again to worse 
than before, and verily and indeed kill 
her. It was a dilemma that has rare- 
1 }' fallen on man. Karl Andinnian 
was as honest and honorable a man 
as an}" in this world, and he could see 
no wav ‘Hit of it. He might not im- 
])art to them so much as a hint of the 
dreadful secret; neither could he in- 
flict tin* '^lal) that might cost Lucy^s 
life: on the other hand, to make Lucv 
Ins wife, knowing what he now knew, 
would i)e dishonor unutterable. What 
was he to do? What was he to do? 
There was ab.solutely no loophole of 
escajie, no way out of it. 

Will it be believed that Karl An- 


dinnian knelt down and pray'ed ? 
jMan, careless, worldlv man, rarely 
does these things. He did. In his 
dire distress he prayed to be guided 
to the right. But all the uncertainty 
came back as he rose up again, and he 
could not see his course at all. Yeiy 
shortly Hewitt knocked at his door : 
saving it was time for Sir Karl to get 
up, if he would catch the passing train. 
When Sir Karl came forth Hewitt 
thought how ver}^ quickl}^ he had 
dressed. 

Delayed a tide by the non-controlla- 
ble winds and waves. Sir Karl reach- 
ed Paris only on the evening of the 
eleventh. He drove at once from tlie 
station - to the Avenue d’Antin, and 
asked to see Lucy in. private. Torn 
by conflicting interests he had at 
length resolved to sacrifice his own 
sense of honor to Lucy’s life. At 
least, if she should not decide against 
it. 

She was looking radiant. She told 
him (in a jest) that the}^ had consid- 
ered him lost, that all had prophesied 
he had decamped and deserted her. 
Sir Karl’s smile in answer to this was 
so faint, his few words so spiritless and 
subdued, that Lucy, a little sobered, 
asked whether anj’thing was the mat- 
ter. They were standing on the 
hearth-rug: Karl a few steps apart 
from her. 

“ What should yow say if I had 
deserted you, Lucy?” 

I should just have said I^on voy- 
age, monsieur,” she answered gayl^s 
never believing the question had a 
meaning. 

‘‘ Luc}", my dear, this is no time for 
jesting. I have come back with a 
great care upon me. It is a fact, be- 
lieve it or not as you will, that I had 
at one time determined to desert you : 
to write and give 3"ou up.” 

There was no immediate answer, 
and Karl turned his eyes on her. The 
words toKl home. H er blanched face 
had a great terror dawning on it. 

Sit down, Lucy, while you listen 
to me,” he said, placing her in a chair. 

I must disclose somewhat of this to 
you, but it cannot be much.” 


MRS. ANDINNIAJii ’S SECRET. 


75 


Remaining standing himself, he said 
to her what he could. It was a most 
arduous task, from the difficulties that 
surrounded it. A great and unexpect- 
ed misfortune had fallen upon him, he 
said ; one that from its nature he 
might not further allude to. It would 
take away a good deal of his sub- 
stance; it ought in short to debar his 
marriage with her. He went on to 
tell of the conflict he had passed 
through, whether he should quit her 
or not, and of his final resolve to dis- 
close so much to her, and to leave with 
her the decision. If she decided 
against him, he would invent some 
other plea to Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve 
for breaking off the marriage ; or let 
the act appear to come from her, as she 
should will. If she decided for him, 
why then 

Tell me one thing, Karl,’’ she said 
as he broke down. ‘‘Has this matter 
had its rise in any dishonor or ill-doing 
of yours?” 

“Ho,” was the emphatic rejoinder. 
“ I am as innocent in it and until a day 
or two ago was as unconscious of it as 
vou can be. You need not fear that, 
Lucy.” 

“Then you need not have doubted 
me, TKarl,” she said, the tears rising to 
her eyes with the intensity of her re- 
lief. “ It was cruel of you to think of 
a separation now. I am yours.” 

“ Lucy, look fully into the future. 
At least as fully as these indefinite 
words of mine will admit of. I hope — 
I trust — that no further complication 
may come of it ; that it may never be 
known to the world. But it may, and 
probably will be otherwise. A great 
calamity may fall upon us; in the 
world’s eyes we should both be dishon- 
ored ; I through others, you through 
me.” 

“ I am yours ; yours for all time.” 

“ Very well, Lucy. So be it. But, 
my darling, if that blow should fall, 
you may repent of your marriage with 
me. I know your parents would.” 

“ hlush, Karl ! ” she whispered, ris- 
ing from her seat to the arms opened 
to receive her. “J repent? That 
can never be. My dearest friend, my 


almost husband, I am yours for weal or 
for woe. Have you forgotten the vows 
I shall take to you to-morrow in the 
sight of God? For richer for poorer, 
for better for worse.” 

“ God bless you, Lucy ! May God 
bless and protect us both.” And as 
Sir Karl held her to him, his frame 
shook with its own emotion, and a 
scalding tear fell on her face from an 
aching heart. 

The second week in March, just as 
nearly as possible a month after the 
marriage, Sir Karl Andinnian received 
at Florence, where he and his wife 
were staying, a telegram from Hewitt 
at Fox wood. It stated that Mrs. An- 
dinnian was ill with some kind of fe- 
ver; it had taken a dangerous turn, 
and her life might be a question of a 
few hours. 

As quickly as it was practicable for 
them to travel Sir Karl and Lady An- 
dinnian reached Paris. Mrs. Cleeve 
and Miss Blake were still there ; the 
Colonel was in London. They had 
let their house at Winchester, and 
could not yet get back to it. Sir Karl 
left Lucy with her mother: not daring, 
as he said, to take her on to Foxwood, 
lest the fever should be. infectious. The 
change in Lucy was wonderful : her 
cheeks were plump and rosy, her eyes 
told their own unmistakable tale of 
happiness. i\Irs. Cleeve could do noth- 
ing but look at her. 

“We did well to give her to him,” 
said she to Theresa. 

“0 Karl, my darling, don’t stay 
long away from me !” whispered Lucy, 
clinging to him in the moment of his 
departure. “ And be sure take care of 
yourself, Karl, and do not run any 
risk, if you can help it, of the fever.” 

With mail}" a sweet word of reassur- 
ance, murmured between his farewell 
kisses of passionate tenderness, Karl 
answered her. To part with one 
another, even for this short apd tem- 
porary space of time, seemed a great 
trial. 

A change for the better had taken 
place in Mrs. Andinnian, when Sir 
Karl arrived at Foxwood. She was in 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


i () 

no immeilin.te danger. IMr. Moore, the 
surgeon at Foxwood, informed him 
that he must not trust to this improve- 
ment. The fever had in a degree sub- 
sided, but her state of prostration was 
so great, that he feared she might yet 
die of the weakness. Karl enquired 
wliat was tlie nature of the fever : JMr. 
]\Ioore replied that it was a species of 
low fever more than anything else, 
and appeared to have been induced 
chiefly by the sad state of mind Mrs. 
Andinnian had been brouglit into, 
grieving over the fate of her elder son. 
Hr. Cavendish of Basham (the neigh- 
boring market town) Inid attended reg- 
ularly with Mr. iMoore. Sir Karl at 
once telegraphed to London for a phy- 
sician of world-wide reputation. AVhen 
this great doctor arrived, he only con- 
firmed the treatment and opinion of 
the other two ; and said that nothing 
could well be more uncertain than the 
recovery of Mrs. Andinnian. 

Karl wrote these various items of in- 
formation to his wife in Paris, and 
sliowed her how impossible it was that 
he could quit his mother during the un- 
certainty. Lucy replied by saying 
that she should think very ill of him if 
he could; but she begged him to allow 
her to come to Foxwood, and help him 
in the nursing,' saying she was not 
afraid of the fever. She added a pretty 
and affectionate message to Mrs. An- 
dinnian — that she would find in her a 
loving daugJiter. The same post brought 
Sir Karl a letter from Mrs. Cleeve, who 
evidently was afraid of the fever. “ Do 
you take precautions for jmurself, dear 
Sir Karl ; and do you fumigate all let- 
ters before you send them' out ? Such 
was its chief burthen. 

Karl believed there was no dancrer 
from the fever : but, alas, he dared not 
have Lucy. He had reached Foxwood 
only to find more complication than 
ever in the unhappy secret disclosed to 
him by his mother. Only a word or 
two dro[)ped by her — and in her weak, 
and sometimes semi-lucid state, he 
could not be sure she would not drop 
them — and Lucy might know as much 
as he (lid. i)esides, there was no es- 
tablishment at Foxwood fit to receive 
Lady Andinnian. 


Hour after hour, day after day, he 
sat by his mother’s bedside. When 
they were alone s1ie could only whisper 
of the trouble she had disclosed to him. 
Karl felt that it was wearing her out. 
He told her so. 

He feltjthat death would inevitably 
end it : and he watched her grow 
weaker. The strain upon his own 
mind was great : brooding over tho 
matter as he did — for in truth to think 
of any oHier theme was not practicable 
— he saw what a wrong he had com- 
mitted in marrying Lucy. Sir Karl’s 
only interludes of change lay in the 
visits of the medical men. Dr. Cav- 
endish came once a day ; Mr. jMoore 
twice or thrice. The latter was rather 
brusque in his manner, but kindly, 
keen, and sensible. He was plain, 
with a red face and nose that turned 
up; and brown hair tinged with grey. 
The more Karl saw of him, the more 
he liked him : and he felt sure he was 
clever in his calling. 

It is a great misfortune that Mrs. 
Andinnian should have taken poor Sir 
Adam’s death so much to heart,” IMr. 
Moore one day observed to Karl, when 
he found his patient exhausted, rest- 
less, in all ways worse. “While she 
cultivates this unhappy frame of mrnd, 
we can do nothing for her.” 

“ Her love for mv brother was a 

•j 

great love, Mr. Mopre; quite passing 
the ordinary love of mothers.” 

^‘No doubt of that. Still, Sir Karl, 
it is not right to let regret for his death 
kill her.” 

Sir Karl turned the conversation. 
He knew how wrong were the sur- 
geon’s premises. Her regret for his 
brother’s death had been terrible: but 
it was not that that was killing Mrs. 
Andinnian. 

The days went on, Mrs. Andinnian 
growing weaker and weaker. Her 
mind had regained unfortunately all 
its activity: unfortunately because she 
had not strength of body to counter- 
balance its workings. Karl iiad a 
great deal to do for her: consultations 
to hold with her and letters to write ; 
but even yet he was not admitted to 
her full confidence. During that night’s 
interview with her, when he had learn- 


AT TPIE GATE OF THE MAZE. 


rr 


ed so much, he had enquired who the 
gentleman was that had called and 
taken luncheon. Mrs. Andinnian had 
declined to answer him, further than it 
was a Mr. Smith who had applied for 
the agency of Sir KarPs estate. Sir 
Karl now found that Mr. Spith had 
heen af)poiiu'ed the agent, and had had 
a house side by side with Foxwood 
Court assigned to him as his residence, 
'j’he information nearly struck VKarl 
dumb. He felt sure there more 
behind, some inexplicable cause for 
this: but nothing more could he get 
from his mother. She was ill, he was 
going to live abroad, she said, there- 
fore it was necessary some responsible 
person should be on the spot to look 
after things. 

intense surprise, the next 
he had from his wife was dated 
ijonaon. They had left Paris and 
come over. With his whole heart 
Karl hoped they would not be coming 
to Foxwood; and in his answering let- 
ter he talked a good deal about the 
‘4‘ever.’^ 

As to himself, he was wearing to 
a shadow. One might surelj^ have 
thought he had a fever, and a wasting 
one. In writing to Mrs. Cleeve he ad- 
mitted he was not well ; and she 
him back four pages full of instructions 
for fumigation, and beseeching him 
not to come to them. There’s nothing 
like trouble to wear but a man. 

The event that had been prognosti- 
cated by the doctors and feared by 
Karl took place — Mrs. Andinnian 
died. In the midst of praying for 
only a few days’ longer life, she died. 
Karl’s anguish, what with that, and 
what wfth the weight of other things, 
seemed more than he could bear. IMrs. 
Andinnian’s grave was made close to 
that of her son Adam ; and the funeral 
w^as a very quiet one. 

Sir Karl remained at Foxwood, os- 
tensibly fumigating the house and him- 
self preparatory to joining his wife in 
town. He looked as much like a skel- 
eton as a man. Mr. Moore noticed it, 
and asked what was coming to him. 

One day Mr. Smith, the agent, called, 
and was shown in to Sir Karl. The in- 


terview lasted about twenty minutes, 
and then the bell was rung. 

^^Is the gentleman going to remain 
here as your agent, sir?” enquired 
Hewitt, with the familiariCy of an old 
servant, when he had closed the door 
on the guest. 

‘‘Why, yes, Hewitt, while I am 
away. My mother appointed him. 
She thought it better some one should 
be here to act for me — and I suppose 
it is right that it should be so.” 

Freely and lightl}" spoke Sir Karl. 
But in good truth Mr. Smith fairly 
puzzled him. He knew no more who 
he was or whence he came than he had 
known before.. Mr. Smith’s conversa- 
tion during the interview had certainly 
turned on the Foxwood estate; but 
Sir Karl had seen all the while that 
his agency was only a blind — a blind 
to serve as a pretext for his residence 
at Foxwood. Mrs. Andinnian had fix- 
ed the amount of salary he was to re- 
ceive, and Sir Karl meant to continue 
the payment of it. Why? — the reader 
may ask. Because Sir Karl dared not 
refuse, for he felt sure the man knew a . 
great deal of Mrs. Andinnian’s dan-'| 
gerous secret. 

At length Sir Karl went up to Lon- 
to rejoin his wife. Lucy gave a 
startled cry when she saw him — he was 
looking so ill ; and Mrs. Cleeve accused 
him of having had the fever. Karl 
turned it off lightly : it was nothing, 
he said, but the confinement to his 
mother’s room. 

But Miss Blake, who was growing 
very keen in her propensity for making 
the world better than it is, could not 
understand two things. Why Sir 
Karl need have lingered so long at 
Foxwood ; or why he could not have 
had his wife there^ 


CHAPTER XL 

AT THE GATE OF THE MAZE. 

A MORE charming place than Fox- 
wood Court presented in the summer 
months when the rare and sweet 
flowers by which it was surroui.ded 




78 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


were in bloom, could not have been 
found in the Kentish county. The 
mansion was not very large, but it was 
exceedingly gay and pretty to look up- 
on ; a white building with a goodly 
number of large windows, those on the 
ground floor niostl}" opening to the 
ground, so that the terrace could he 
gained from the rooms at will. The 
terrace — a gravel walk with brilliant 
flower beds on either side it — ran 
along the front and the two sides of 
the house. A marble step or two in 
four places descended to a lower walk, 
or terrace, and from thence there was 
spread out the level lawn, a wide ex- 
panse, dotted with beds of flowers and 
bounded with groves of beautiful trees. 
The chief entrance to the house was 
in its centre : a pillared portico, sur- 
mounting a flight of steps that led 
down to the broad walk dividing the 
lawn. At the end of this walk be- 
tween the bank of trees were the large 
iron gates and the lodge ; and there 
were one or two small private gates of 
egress besides in the iron palisades 
that enclosed the grounds beyond the 
trees. If there was a fault to be found 
with the locality, altogether, it perhaps 
was that it had too many trees about 
it. 

The iron gates opened upon a broad 
highway: but one from circumstances 
now to be explained, was not much 
used, except by visitors to Fox wood 
Court. To tlie left of the gates a 
winding road led to the village of Fox- 
w’ood ; it lay in front, distant about a 
quarter of a m#le. To the right the 
road went straight to the little railway 
station : but as there was also a high- 
way from the village to the station di- 
rect, cutting off all the round by Fox- 
wood Court, it will readily be under- 
stocnl why that part of the road was 
rarely used. In the village of Fox- 
wood there were a few good and a few 
poor houses ; some shops ; a church 
and parsonage, the incumbent an 
elderly man named Sumnor ; Mr. 
Moore the surgeon ; and a solicitor, 
Mr. St. Henry, who was universally 
called in the place Lawyer St. Henry. 
Some good man.^^ions were scattered 


about in the vicinity ; and it was alto- 
gether a favored and attractive neigh- 
borhood. 

In a small but very pretty room of 
Foxwood Court, at the side of the 
house that looked towards the railway 
station, sat Mrs. Cleeve and Miss 
Blake at breakfast. It was a warm 
and lovely June morning. The table 
set off with beautiful china from the 
\Vorcester manufactories, with silver 
plate, and with a glass of choice flow- 
ers, was drawn close to the window, 
whose doors were wide open. By Mrs. 
Cleeveks hand lay a letter just received 
from her daughter, Lady Andinnian, 
saying that she and Karl were really 
commencing their journe}’’ home. 

But for interference how well the 
world might get on ! After Karl quit- 
ted Foxwood to rejoin his wife in Lon- 
don — as was related previously — Lucy 
had so far regained her health and 
strength that there was reallj^ no need 
for her to go, as had been arranged, to 
another climate. She herself wished 
not to go, but to take up her abode at 
once at Foxwood Court, and Colonel 
and Mrs. Cleeve seeing her so well, 
said they would prefer that she should 
remain in England. Karl, however, 
ruled it otherwise ; and to the Conti- 
nent he went with his wife. Then 
Mi'js Blake took up the tale and the 
interference. Somewhat of love still, 
anger, and jealousy rankled in her 
heart against Karl Andinnian. Any- 
thing she could say against him she 
did say: and she contrived to impress 
Mrs. Cleeve with a notion that he, in 
a sort, had kidnapped Lucy and was 
taking her abroad for some purposes 
of his own. She boldl}" averred that 
Sir Karl had been het^plng his wife 
away from Foxwood by statements of 
the fever, and such like, false and 
plausible: and that he probably meant 
to hide her away from them in some 
remote place fl)r ever. 

This served to startle Mrs. Cleeve — 
though she only half believed it. She 
wrote ^ to Sir Karl, saying that both 
herself and the Colonel wished to see 
Lucy home, and begged of him to re- 
turn and take up his abode at Fox- 


79 


AT THE GATE OF THE MAZE.' 


wood. Karl replied that Foxwood was 
not ready for them ; there was no es- 
tablisliment. Mrs. Cleeve wrof'e again 
— urging that she and Theresa should 
go down and engage two or three ser- 
vants, just enough to receive himself 
and Lucy : afterwards they could take 
on more at will. A few days’ delay 
and Karl’s second answer came. He 
thanked Mrs. Cleeve for the trouble 
she offered to take, and accepted it : 
specifying a wish that the servants 
should be natives of the locality — and 
W'ho had always lived in it. 

^^Sir Karl wishes to employ his poor 
neighbors,” observed Mrs. Cleeve, 

You must see that he is right, Ther- 
esa.” 

Theresa could find no cause to con- 
fute this much. But she was more and 
more persuaded that Sir Karl would 
have kept Lucy awa}^ from Foxwood 
if he could. And we must admit that 
it looked it. 

Mrs. Cleeve lost no time in going 
down with Miss Blake to Foxwood 
Court. Hewitt, who had been left in 
charge, with an elderly woman, received 
them. They thought they had never 
seen a more respectable or thoroughly 
efficient retainer. The gardeners were 
th6 only other servants employed. 
They lived out of doors ; the chief one, 
Maclean, inhabiting the lodge with his 
wife. 

While IMiss Blake was looking out 
for some young women servants, two 
or three of whom were speedily found 
and engaged, she made it her business 
to look also after the village and its in- 
habitants. That Miss Blake had a pe- 
culiar faculty for searching out infor- 
mation, was indisputable: never a bet- 
ter one for the task than she : and when 
an individual is gifted with this quali- 
ty in a remarkable degree, it has to be 
more or less exercised. Miss Blake 
might have been a successful police de- 
tective : attached to a private inquiry 
office she would have made its fortune. 

And, what she learnt, gave her a 
profound contempt for Foxwood. We 
are speaking of the place now; not the 
Court. In the first place there was no 
church : or at least what Miss Blake 


chose to consider none. The vicar, 
iNIr. Sumnor, set his face against views 
of an extreme kind, and that was suffi- 
cient for Miss Blake to wage war with. 
Old Sumnor, to sum him up in IMiss 
Blake’s words, might be conscientious 
enough, but he was as slow as a tor- 
toise. She attended his church the 
first Sunday, and found it unbearabl}^ 
tame. There were no candles or flow- 
ers or banners or processions : and there 
was no regular daily service held. 
IMiss Blake thought one m’ght as well 
be without breakfast and dinner. Fox- 
wood was a benighted place, and notic- 
ing less. 

Mr. Sumnor’s family consisted <of an 
invalid daughter left him b}^ his first 
wife ; a second wife and two more 
daughters. Mrs. Sumnor kept him in 
subjection, and her two daughters were 
show}" and fast young ladies. The sur- 
geon, IMr. Moore, a widower, had four 
blooming girls, and a sister, Aunt Di- 
ana, a kind of strong-minded female, 
who took care of them. ' The young 
ladies were pretty, but common-place. 
As to the lawyer, St. Henry, he had no 
children of his own, but liad taken to a 
vast many of his dead brother’s. There 
were many other young ladies in tlce 
vicinity; but it was an absolute fact 
that there were no gentlemen — hus- 
bands and fathers of families excepted; 
for the few sons that existed were gone 
out to make their own way in the world. 
Miss Blake considered it not at all a 
desirable state of things, and accorded 
it her cool contempt. But the place 
showed itself friendly, and came flock- 
ing in its simple manners and hearty 
good will to see the Hon. jMrs. Cleeve, 
Lady Andinnian’s mother, and to ask 
what it could do for her. So that i\riss 
Blake, whether she liked it or not, soon 
found herself on terms of sociability 
with Foxwood. 

One morning an idea dawned upon 
her that seemed like a ray from heaven. 
Conversing with the Misses St. Henry, 
those ladies — gushing damsels with 
enough brown hair on their heads to 
make a decent sized hayrick, and in 
texture it was nearly as coarse as hay 
— informed her confidentially that they 


80 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


also considered the place henighted in 
the matter of religion. Often visiting an 
aunt in London — whose enviable, roof- 
top was* cast within the shadow of a 
high ritualistic establishment, boasting 
of great hourly doings and five charm- 
ing curates, it might readily be im- 
’agined the blight that fell upon them 
when doomed to return to Foxwood 
Cluirch and plain old Summor : and 
they bi-eathed a devout wish that a 
church after their own hearts might be 
established at Foxwood. This was the 
ray of light that flashed upon IMiss 
Flake. She started at its brightness. 
A new church at Foxwood ! If the 
thing were possible to be accomplished, 
she would accomplish it. The Lev. 
Guy Cattacomb, what with prejudiced 
lushops and old-world clergymen, did 
not appear to be appreciated according 
to his merits, and had not yet found 
any field for his views and services. 
IVIiss Flake was in occasional corres- 
pondence with him, and knew this. 
From being a kind of dead-and-alive 
creature ‘under the benighting torpidi- 
ty of Foxwood, Miss Flake leaped at 
once into an energetic woman. An 
object was given ber: and she wrote a 
long letter to Mr. Cattacomb telling 
him what it was. This morning his 
answer had been delivered to her. 

She chirped to the birds as she sat 
at breakfast; she threw them crumbs 
out at the window. Mrs. Cleeve was 
quitting Foxwood that da}", but hoped 
to be down again soon after Sir Karl 
and her daughter reached it. 

A^ou are sure, Theresa, you do not 
mind being left alone here?’’ cried 
Airs. Cleeve, eating her poached egg. 

Fut Theresa, buried in her own ac- 
tive schemes, and in the letter she had 
just had from Air. Cattacomb — though 
she did not mention’ aloud the name 
of the writer — neither heard nor an- 
swered. Airs. Cleeve spoke again. 

“Alind being left here? Oh dear 
no, I shall like it. I hated the place 
the first few days, hut I am quite re- 
conciled to it now.” 

‘^And you know exactly what there 
is to do for the ai*rival of Sir Karl and 
Lucy, Theresa?” 


Why of ccTurse I do. Airs. Cleeve. 
There’s Hewitt, too: he is a host in 
himself.” 

Ib’eakfast over, Aliss Flake, as was 
customary, went out. Having no daily 
service to take up her time, she hardly 
knew how to employ it. Air. Catta- 
comb’s letter had told her that he 
should be most happy to come to offi- 
ciate at Foxwood if a church could be 
provided for him : the difficulty pre- 
senting itself to Aliss Flake’s mind 
was — that there was no church to pro- 
vide. As Aliss Flake had observed to 
Jane St. Henry only yesterday, she 
knew they might just as well ask the 
Dean of AVestminster for his abbey, as 
old Sumnor for his church, or the min- 
ister for his Dissenting chapel opposite 
the horse-pond. 

Fevolving these slight drawbacks in 
her brain, Aliss Flake turned to the 
right on leaving tlie gates. Generally 
speaking she had gone the other way, 
towards the village. This road was 
more solitary. On one side of it were 
the' iron palisades and the grove of 
trees that shut in Foxwood ; on the 
other was a tall hedge and another 
grove of trees behind it. A little far- 
ther on, this tall liedge had a gate in 
its middle, high and strong, whose bars 
of iron were so closely constructed that 
it would not have been well possible 
for ill-intentioned tramps to mount it. 
The gate stood back a little, the road 
winding in just there, and was much 
shut in by trees outside as well in. 
Op[)osite the gate, over the road, stood 
a pretty red-brick cottage villa, with 
green Venetian outside shutters, creep- 
ing clematis around its parlor windows, 
and the rustic porch between them. It 
was called Clematis Cottage, and may 
be said to have joined the confines of 
Foxwood Court, there being only a nar- 
row side-lane between, which led to 
the Court’s stables and back premises. 
Miss Flake had before noticed tlie cot- 
tage and noticed the gate : she liad 
wondered in her ever-active curiosity 
who occupied the one; she had 
wondered whether any dwelling was 
enclosed within the other. This morn- 
ing as she passed, a boy stood watching 




AT TILE GATE OF THE MAZE. 


81 


the gate, his hands in his pockets and 
whistling to a small dog which liad 
contrived to get its one paw into the 
gate and seemed to be in a difficnlty as 
to getting it back again. Miss Blake, 
after taking a good look at Clematis 
Cottage, crossed the road ; and the boy, 
in rustic politeness, turned his head 
and touched his shabby cap. 

Where does this gate lead to?^’ 
she asked,. To any house ? 

Yes, him,’^ replied the boy, wdiose 
name, as he informed Miss Blake, was 
Tom Pepp. IPs the Maze.’^ 

The Maze,’^ she repeated, thinking 
the name had an odd sound. Do you 
mean that it is a house, boy ? — a dwell- 
ing place?’’ 

“ It be that, ’um, sure enough. Old 
]Mr. Throcton used to live in’t. Folks 
said he was crazy.” 

Why is it called the Maze? ” 

It is a maze,” said the boy, pat- 
ting his dog, which had at length got 
loose. See that there path, ’um ” — 
pointing to the one close within th'e, 
gate — ‘Yind see them there trees avbnt 
it ? ” 

Miss Blake looked over the path at 
the trees. They exteiuDd on all sides 
farther than she could see. Thick, 
clustering trees, and shrubs full of 
leafy verdure, with what looked like 
innumerable paths amidst them. 

^‘That’s the maze,” said the boy, 
and the place is called after it. Once 
get among them there trees, ’um, and 
you’d never get out again without the 
clue. The house is in the middle on’t ; a 
space cleared out, with a goodish big 
garden and grass-plot. ^ I’ve been in 
three or four times when old Mr. 
Throcton lived there.” 

Did you get in through the maze ? ” 
asked Miss Blake. 

‘‘ Yes, ’um, there ain’t no other way. 
’Twere always along of mother; she 
knowed the housekeeper. The man 
servant he’d take us through the trees 
all roundabout and bring us out 
again,” 

•“Where does this path lead to?” 
was the next question, speaking of 
the one inside between the maze and 
the gate. 


“ He goes round and round and 
round again,” was the lucid answer. 
“I've heard say that a door in it leads 
right to the house, but nobody can 
find the door save them that know it.” 

“ What an extraordinary place ! ” 
exclaimed Miss Blake ; much impressed 
with the narration. “ One would think 
smugglers lived there — or people of 
that kind.” 

The boy’s eyes — and intelligent eyes 
thej^ were — went up to Miss Blake’s, 
He did not particularly understand 
what a smuggler might be, but felt 
sure it could not apply to Mr. Throc- 
ton. 

“ Mr. Throcton was a rich gentle- 
man that had always lived here,” he 
sai<h “There warn’t nothing wrong 
with him-^only a bitcraz}". For years 
afore he died, ’um, he’d never see no- 
body ; and the house, mother said, were 
kept just like a prison.” 

Miss Blake, veiy curious, looked at 
the lock and tried to shake the gate. 
She might as well have tried to shake 
the air. 

“ Who lives in it now, Tom Pepp ? ” 

“ A young lady, ’um.” 

“ A young ladj" ? ” echoed Miss' 
Blake. “ Who else ? ” 

“ Hot nobody else,” said the bojn 

“ Why, you don’t mean to say a 
young lady lives alone there ? ” 

“ She do, ’um. She and a old ser- 
vant or two,” 

“ Is she married or single ? ” 

Tom Pepp could not answer the last 
question. Supposed, now he came to 
think of it, she must be single, as no 
husband was there. He did not know 
her name. 

“ What is she like ? ” asked Miss 
Blake. 

“ I’ve never see’d her,” said Tom 
Pepp. “ I’ve never see’d her come 
out, and never see’d nobody go in but 
the butcher’s boy. Fie don’t go in nei- 
ther. He rings at the gate and waits 
there till thej^ come to him.” 

“ Well, it must be a very lively place 
for a young lady ! ” mentally observed 
Miss Blake wicli sarcasm. “ She must 
want to hide herself from the world.” 

“ Mother see’d her at church once 


82 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


with her veil np. SheM never seeM 
notliing like her so pretty at Foxwood.’’ 

Turning to pursue her walk, Toni 
Pepp, who worked for Farmer Truefit, 
and who was in fact playing truant for 
naif an hour and thought it might not 
be policy to play it any longer, turned 
also, the farm lying in that direction. 
At that moment, Miss Blake, happen- 
ing to cast her e3"es across the road, 
saw the head and shoulders of a gen- 
tleman stretched out of one of the sash 
windows of Clematis Cottage, evident!}^ 
regarding her attentively. 

‘‘ Who is that gentleman, Tom 
Pepp ? ’’ 

‘‘ Him ! Well now, w hat did I hear 
his name wms again?’’ returned the 
lad, considering. Smith. That^s it. 
It’s jMr. Smith, ’um. He be a strang- 
er to the place, and come here just 
afore jMrs. Andinnian died. It’s said 
he was some friend of her’n.” 

“ Rather a curious person, that Mrs. 
Andinnian, wms she not?” remarked 
Miss Blake, invited to gossip b\^ the 
intelligence of the boy. 

I never see’d her,” w^as the reiter- 
ation, ‘‘ I’ve never \^et see’d the new 
master o’ Foxwmod, Sir Karl Andin- 
nian. It’s said Sir Karl is coming 
home himself soon,” added the boy ; 
“him and his lady. Hope he’ll be as 
good for the place as Sir Joseph w’as.” 

They passej on : the opj>osite gen- 
tleman’s eyes following j\Iiss Blake: 
of which she was quite conscious. 
Soon they came to the road on the 
left hand that led direct to the village. 
Miss Blake glanceil down it, but con- 
tinued her wmlk straight onwards, as 
if she had a mind to go on to the rail- 
road station. Casting her e3^es this 
w^ay and that, she w’as attracted by a 
pile of ruins on the other side the 
road, w'ith what looked like a kind of 
modern room amidst them. 

“Why, what’s that?” she cried to 
Tom Pepp, standing still to gaze. 

“ Oh, them be the ruins, ’urn,” an- 
sw'ered Tom Pepp. “ It had used to 
be the chapel belonging to the gray 
friars at the monastery.” 

“What friars? — what monasteiy?” 
eagerly returned Miss Blake, much 
interested. 


The friars were dead years ago, and 
the monastery had crumbled to pieces, 
and IMr. Truefit’s farm w^as built upon 
where it used to stand, was the sub- 
stance of the boy’s answer, delivered 
in terrible fright, for he caught sight 
of his master, Mr. Truefit, at a dis- 
tance. 

IMiss Blake glanced at the farm- 
house, wdiich lay back beyond the first 
I field. “ Surel3" they have not dese- 
crated sacred ruins by putting up a 
barn amidst them I” she exclaimed, as 
she crossed the road to explore. There 
w^ere half-crumbled w^alls around, part 
of an ivied stone block that she thought 
must have been the basement of a 
spire, and other fragments. 

It’s not a barn,” said Tom Pepp: 
“never w\as one. The3^ mended some 
o’ the old w^alls a few 3"ears ago, and 
made it into a school-room, and the 
children w^ent to school in it — me for 
one. Not for long, though. Lady 
Andinnian and Sir Joseph — it was 
more her than him — fell out wdth Par- 
son Sumnor and the trusts ; and my 
lad3^ children shouldn’t never 

come to it again. After that, the 
trusts built ’em a school-room in the 
village ; and ’tw^as said Sir Joseph sent 
’em a five hundred pound in a letter 
and never writ a w’ord to tell where it 
come from. He was a good man, he 
was, when m3^ h^<l 3 " hid let him be.” 

Miss Blake did not hear half: she 
was lost in an idea that had taken 
possession of her, as she gazed about 
inside the room. It w^as narrow and 
not ver3’ long, wdth bare v^ hite-w^ashed 
walls and rafters above, the windows on 
either side being very high up. 

“ If this place w\as the chapel in the 
old times, it must have been conse- 
crated ! ” cried she, breathlessly. 

“Very like, ’um,” wuis the lad’s 
answ'er, in blissful ignorance of her 
meaning. “ Them gray friars used to 
eat their meals in it, I’ve heard tell, 
and hold jollifications.” 

Preoccupied, the sinful insinuation 
escaped Aliss Blake. The conviction 
tlmt this consecrated place w'ould be 
the'ver3’’ thing needed for Mr. Catta- 
corn^’s church w^as working in her 
brain. , Tom Pepp was ensconced in 


AT THE GATE OF THE MAZE. 83 


a dark corner, his dos^ in his arms, 
devoutly hoping his master would not 
come that way till he had made his 
escape. The ruins belonged to Far- 
mer Truefit, the hoy said. The fact 
h(dng that they stood on the land the 
farmer rented ; which land was part 
of the Andinnian estate. 

Has nothing been done with the 
room since it was used for the school ? ’’ 
asked Miss Blake. 

Kothing,’^ was the hoy’s reply. 
It was kept locked up until Lady An- 
dinnian’s death : since then, nobody, 
so far as he knew, had taken notice of 
it. 

What a beautiful little chapel it 
will make!” thought Miss Blake. 
“ And absolutely there’s a little place 
that wall do for a vestrj’ ! I’ll lose no 
tin)e.” 

She went off straight to an inter- 
view with Mr. Trueiit; which was 
held in the middle of a turnip-field. 
The farmer, a civil man, stout and 
sturdy, upon hearing that she was a 
relative of his new landlord’s wife, the 
young Lady Andinnian, and was stay- 
ing at Foxwood Court, took off his hat 
and gave her leave to do what she 
liked to the room and to make it into 
a place of worship if she pleased : his 
idea being that it was to be a kind of 
Methodist chapel, or mission-room. 

This sublime idea expanding within 
her mind. Miss Blake walked back to 
Foxwood — for Mrs. Cleeve was to de- 
part at midday. In passing the "Maze, 
the interest as to what she had heard 
induced her to go close up to the gate 
again, jind peer in. Turning away af- 
ter a good long look, she nearly ran 
against a rather tall gentleman, who 
was slowly sauntering along through 
the trees outside the gate. A gentle- 
man in green spectacles, with a some- 
what handsome face and black whis- 
kers — the same face and whiskers. 
Miss Blake thought, that had watched 
her from the opposite window. He 
wore gray clothes, had one black glove 
on and his arm in a sling. 

Mr. Smitli took off his hat and apol- 
ogised. Miss Blake apologised. Be- 
tween them they fell into conversation. 


Slie found him a very talkative, pleas- 
ant man. 

Curious place, the Maze ? ” he 
eclioed in answer to a remark of Miss 
Blake’s. Well, ^^es, I suppose it may 
be called so, as mazes are not very 
common.” 

I have been told a young ladj^ lives 
in it alone.” 

I believe she does. In fact, I know 
it, for I have seen her.” 

“ Oh, have you 1 ” cried Miss Blake, 
more curiously than ever. 

‘‘ When 1 went to receive the pre- 
mium f(>r Sir Karl Andinnian — due on 
taking the house,” quietly explained 
IMr. Smith. 

“ And who is she ? ” 

“ She is a iMrs. Grey.” 

“ Oh — a married woman.” 

“Certainly. A single lady, young 
as she is, would scarcely be living en- 
tirel}^ alone.” 

“ But where is her husband ? ” 

“Traveling, I believe. I understood 
her to say so.” 

“ She is quite young then ?” 

“ Quite.” 

“Is she good-looking ? ” continued 
Miss Blake. 

“ I have rarely seen any so one pret- 
ty." 


“Indeed! What a strange thir g 
that she should be hiding herself in 
this retired place ! ” 

“Do you think so? It seems to 
me to be just the spot a jmung lady 
might select, if obliged to live apart 
for a time from her husband.” 

“Of course, there’s something in 
that,” conceded Miss Blake. “ Does 
she visit at all in the neighborhood ? ” 
“I think not. I am sure not. If 
she did I should see her go in and oi#;. 


She takes a walk occasionally, and 
sometimes goes to church on Sundays. 
But she mostly keeps in her shell, 
guarded by her t\vo old domestics.” 

In talking, they had crossed the 
road, and now halted again at the lit- 
tle gate of Clematis Cottage. jMi^s 
Blake asked if he knew anything 
about the ruins she had noticed fur- 
ther up : and jMr. Smith (who had in- 
trodirced himself to her by name in a 


84 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


liglit, gentlemanly manner) said he did 
not, hut lie had a book of the locality 
indoors which he would refer to, if she 
would do liim the honor of stepping 
into liis little drawing-room. 

Rather fascinated by liis courteous 
attentions, IMiss Elake did so: and 
thought what a bright-looking, pretty 
drawing-room it was. The gentleman 
took olf his green glasses (casually 
mentioning that lie wore them out of 
doors as a protection against the light), 
and searched for the guide-book. The 
book, however, was chiefly a book of 
roads, and said very little more of the 
monastery and the ruins than IMiss 
Blake had heard from Tom Pepp. 

“You have hurt your arm,^’ she at 
length ventured to observe, as he slow- 
ly drew it once or twice out of the 
sling, and seemed to use it with trou- 
ble. “ All}’ accid^jiit ? ‘^ 

“ An accident of long standing, 
madam. But the arm continues weak, 
and always will continue so, next door 
to useless; and I wear the sling fur 
protection. 

IMiss Blake took her departure ; the 
gentleman escorting her to the garden 
gate with much ceremorl^^ In fact, it 
almost seemed as though he wished to 
make a favorable impression on her. 

“ He is a gallant man,’^ was JMiss 
Blake’s mental comment — “and a well- 
informed and pleasant one. 1 wonder 
who he is ? ” 

But her thoughts, veering round to 
many other matters, at length settled 
themselves upon the Maze and its 
young lady inmate. They quite took 
hold ot her mind and held ])Ossession 
of it, even to the partial exclusion of 
Mr. Cattacorab and the promising 
i^ins. 

f 

In later days. Miss Blake said this 
must have been nothing less than in- 
stinct. 

♦ 

CHAPTER XII. 

TAKING AN EVENING STROLL. 

Miss Blake carred her point. In 
a very short space of time the little 
way-side room in the ruins — call it 


chapel, school-room, barn, what you 
will — was converted into a church and 
styled “St. Jerome.” Setting to work 
at once with a will. Miss Blake had 
left not a stone unturned to accom- 
plish her purpose. She pressed sever- 
al of the young ladies in the village 
into the service. Nothing loth, thev. 
Having heard of the divers merits of 
the Reverend Guy Cattacomb, they 
could not but be desirous so shining a 
light should be secured amidst them. 
i\Iiss Blake herself brought all her rare 
energy, her unflagging perseverance to 
the task. AVhen she took a cause to 
heart, no woman was so indomitable 
as she. As may readily be supposed, 
a good deal had to be done to the room 
before it could be made what was 
wanted ; but contrivance worked won- 
ders. All the money Miss Blake could 
spare she freelj^ applied : it was not 
sufticient, and she wrote to sundrv 
friends, begging contributions. She 
next went, with Miss St. Henry and 
Miss jMoore, to some of the houses in 
the vicimty, to eveiy one where it 
might be safe to go, asking for aid. 
This personal canvass was not alwavs 
successful. Some professed not to un- 
derstand why a second church was re- 
quired, and gave shillings instead of 
pounds. One old lady, however, had 
her generous instincts so worked upon 
by the eloquence of Miss Blake (as 
much as she could hear of it, for she 
was veiy deaf, and her companion de- 
clared afterwards that she believed all 
the while she was giving to a new in- 
dustrial school ])ossessing a resident 
chaplain) that she handed over a 
cheque for flfty guineas. IMiss Blake 
could not l)elieve her eyes when she 
saw it: and she assured the old lady 
that every blessing of heaven would 
be showered down on her in return. 
Miss Blake’s personal friends also con- 
tributed well — and the matter was ac- 
com])lished. Not only was the chapel 
itself set up, but the stipend of Mr. 
Cattacomb assured for the first few 
months. To do Miss Blake justice, 
she wished all things to be right, and 
never entertaiiied a doubt that the 
place had once been duly consecrated. 


TAKING AN EVENING STROLL. 


85 


Her whole heart was in the work — 
always excepting a sliglit small corner 
of it that was still tilled with her 
wrongs and Karl Andinnian. 

The earl}^ afternoon sun shone down 
on the bright flowers, tlie well kept 
lawns of Foxwood Court, as Miss 
Blake stepped out of one of its win- 
dows, her walking costume perfect. 
She was always well dressed : but to- 
day her toilette was more elaborate 
than usual. Standing for a moment 
to look around at the beautiful place, 
at its complete order, there rose up in 
her heart one wild, angry thought — 
But for Lucy, this would have been 
my own. • A very mistaken assumption 
on i\Iiss Blake’s parr ; but who was to 
tell her so? Banishing the thought 
resolutely, she walked along at a brisk 
pace, as if running a race with time. 
It was a great day this. Two events 
were coming off* in it that stirred Miss 
Blake to the core. The Reverend l\Ir. 
Cattacomb was expected by the four 
o’clock train ; and Sir Karl and Lady 
Andinnian would arrive at home for 
dinner. 

Miss Blake took the way to St. Je- 
rome’s church, a very choi<‘e bouquet 
of hot - house flowers in her hand. 
G1 an (dng at the gate of the Maze — in 
regard to which place her interest had 
not in the least abated — she bore on- 
wards, and soon joined some grou[)S of 
ladies, who were advancing to St. Je- 
rome’s b}^ the more direct route from 
the village. They had appointed to 
meet that afternoon and put the tinish- 
ing touches to the room ere it should 
be seen by its pastor — if indeed any 
touches remained to be done. A mat- 
ter such as tins could not but have ex- 
cited much comment at Foxwood ever 
since the first day that Miss Blake took 
it in hand. Prudent mothers, full of 
occupation themselves, warned their 
daughters against being led away.” 
Tile daughters, whose hands were idle, 
rushed to the new attraction, stealthily 
at first, openly afterwards. They grew 
to l)e as energetic as Miss Blake her- 
self, and were in a fervor of eagerness 
ibr the arrival of Mr. Cattacomb. 

Miss Blake opened the door and 


[ allowed the rest to file in. She stayed 
looking at something that did not 
please her — a wheelbarrow full of 
earth lodging right against St. Je- 
rome’s outside walls. 

I should not wonder but it’s that 
Tom Pepp who has left it there!” 
said Miss illake severely. ‘‘The boy’s 
forever dodging about here — and 
brings other boys in his train. When 
Mr. Cattacomb ” 

“ Good afternoon, madam !” 

]\Tiss Blake turned sharply, and re- 
cognized Mr. Smith — his green S[)ecta- 
cles on and his arm in a sling as usual. 
She had seen him once or twice sinceT^ 
that first meeting, but he had only 
bowed in passing. 

“ jMay I be [lermitted to enter?” 
he asked, waving his hand at the 
church -door. 

“Oh certainly,” she replied. “ In- 
deed 1 ho[)e you will become one of 
St. tJerome’s constant worshippers.” 

It certainly looked a sweet little 
place — as Jane St. Henry remarked 
aloud. Candles, flowers, crosses, scrolls 
— for Miss Blake knew exactlj^ what 
would please Mr. Cattacomb. The 
common white - washed walls were 
nearly hidden : mottoes, a painting or 
two, and prints lay thickly upon them, 
all of course of a sacred character. 
The plain, segged-seated chairs stood 
pretty thickly. The other arrange- 
ments were as good as funds, time, and 
space had allowed. Leading off on 
one side at the upper end, was a small 
vestry ; with a sort of a corner box in 
it that was to serve as a confessional. 
This vestiy — which used to be the 
place where the school children put 
their hats and bonnets — had an objec- 
tionable window ill it; before which 
was hung a blind of printed calico, se- 
curing the vestry’s privacy from sun 
and gazers. 

jNlr. ^mith might have been a trav- 
eled man, but in all his travels he had 
seen no place of worship like unto this. 

He was saying so to himself as he 
turned and gazed about through his 
green glasses. 

“Is it not charming, sir?” asked 
Jane St. Henry. 


86 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


It is rather small,” was the re- 
sponse. 

“ Oh, that’s the worst,” said the 
young lady. One cannot liave every- 
thing at the beginning : there must 
always be some drawbacks. I know a 
church in London, not so veiy much 
larger tlian this, where there are tliree 
sweet little sanctuaries: here we have 
only one.” 

Sanctuaries? ” repeated the agent, 
evidentl}" not understanding. 

“ Confessionals. For confession j^ou 
know. We have onlj^ one here, and 
that is obliged to be in the vestry.” 

Oh, then the place is E/Oman 
Catholic ! ” said Mr. Smith, quietly. 

I thought so.” 

He had no intention to offend : it 
was what he inferred; but Miss St. 
Henrj' gave a little shriek and' put her 
two hands to her ears. IMartha Sum- 
nor, a free, showy girl, stepped up. 

‘^For goodness sake don’t call it 
that,” she said. Papa would goon 
at us for coming here worse than he 
does.” 

Mr. Smith bowed and begged par- 
don. He could not help thinking this 
was a daughter of the vicar of the old 
church, but was not sure: and he won- 
dered much. 

Even so. The two daughters of Mr. 
Sumnor had joined St. Jerome’s. They 
and their mother had long set the vicar 
at defiance. 

Foxwood was deemed to be a partic- 
ularly healthy place: in the summer 
months invalids were wont to resort to 
it from the neighboring town of Pa- 
sham. To meet requirements, lodg- 
ings being scarce, a row of houses had 
been run up in the heart of the vil- 
lage, near where the old pound used to 
stand. They were called Paradise 
liow. Very pretty to look at ; per- 
haps not quite so good to wear : stuc- 
coed white fronts outside, lath and 
plaster within. If the door of one 
banged, the whole of the houses shook ; 
and the ringing of a sitting-room bell 
was Inward right and left throughout 
the Eow. 

• It was in the middle house of these 
favored dwellings, No. 5, kept by Mrs. 


Jinks, that the ladies had seemed 
apartments for the Rev. Guy Catta- 
comb. The bow-windowed front par- 
lor, and the bed-room behind it. Mrs. 
Jinks, faiuiliarl\" called by her neigh- 
bors and friends the Widow Jin ks, 
was beyond the middle age — to speak 
politely — with a Imge widow’s cap 
nearl}' as black as the chimne}^ and a 
huge black bonnet generally tilted on 
the top of it. Slie had deemed herself 
very lucky to find her rooms taken by 
the ladies for the new clergyman, 
boasting to her neiglibors that it was 
of course a “permanent let:” but be- 
fore the clergyman arrived, she had 
grown somewhat out of conceit of the 
“ let,” so worried was she by the young 
ladies. Parties of them always calling, 
bringing this, that, and the other for 
the comfort of their expected pastor, 
and calling the Widow Jinks to the 
door a dozen times in a day. 

Upon leaving St. Jerome’s that 
afternoon, they went in a body to Par- 
adise Row, intending to await the ad- 
vent of the Reverend Guy, and to see 
that butter and other essentials had 
been got in for him. Miss Plake could 
have dispensed with so large a part}^ — 
but what was she to do ? All the way 
to the house the}^ had been talking of 
Mr. ^ Smith ; wondering who he was 
and why he had come to live at Fox- 
wood. Miss St. Henry at length re- 
membered to have heard he was a 
friend of the Andinnian family, and 
had been looking after things as agent, 
during the absence of Sir Karl. 

“An agent!” exclaimed Miss 
Blake, drawing herself up. 

“Not a common agent, of course. 
Does what he does out of friendship. 
Here we are.” 

“Oh, that’s very different,” return- 
ed Miss Blake, giving a loud, long, im- 
portant knock at the Widow Jinks’s 
door. 

•“Well, that is a shame of old 
Jinks!” cried Jemima Moore, in an 
undertone to the rest as they got into 
the parlor. 

For the Widow Jinks had not deem- 
ed it necessary to smarten herself up 
to, receive her new lodger. She an- 


TAKING AN EVENING STROLL. 


87 


swered the door in her ordinary work- 
ing costume ; rusty black gown, cap, 
and bonnet. Her face and hands were 
black too, as if she had been disturbed 
in cleaning the pots and kettles. 

^^She ought to be told of it. And 
did you see liow sour she looked?^’ 
Miss Llake put the beautiful bou- 
quet of hot-house flowers — which she 
had been guarding carefully — into a 
vase of water, for it was for l^lv. Catta- 
coinb they had been destined. Some 
light refreshment in the shape of wine 
and cake stood on the table; and Mrs. 
Jinks was examined as to other prepa- 
rations. All was in readiness, and the 
ladies waited witli impatience. 

All impatience that subsided into 
doubt, and that into disappointment. 
The clock had gone ticking on ; the 
train must have been in long ago, and 
it became evident Mr. Cattacomb had 
not come. Miss Blake walked home 
slightly vexed : and there she found 
Sir Karl and Lady Andinnian. < 

Things often go cross and contrary. 
They had not been expected until 
later, and Miss Blake had intended to 
preside — if it may be called so — at 
both arrivals. As it happened she had 
been at neither. It was in crossing 
the lawn, that Lucy, radiant, blooming, 
joyous, ran out to meet her. 

Good gracious ! cried out Miss 
Blake. 

Oh Theresa! how beautiful and 
happy everything is ! ’’ cried the young 
wife, pushing back her bonnet to give 
and take the kiss of greeting. ‘ Karl 
has been showing me the rooms. 
Hewitt said you would not be long/*^ 

But when did ^mu come, Lucy ? ’’ 

Oh, we came b}" the four o’clock 
train, and took a fly. Here’s my hus- 
band. Karl, do you see Theresa? ” 
Karl was coming down the terrace 
steps to greet her. ^liss Blake ad- 
vanced coldly. 

How do you do Sir Karl ? ” — and 
the hand she put into his, seemed limp 
and cold. He did not look blooming, 
but worn, ill; and depressed. 

The}^ entered the hall together, the 
rays from the colored windows shining 
on them and on the tesselated floor^ 


lighting all up with a cheerful bright- 
ness. The reception-rooms were on 
either side the hall : they were what 
Sir Karl had been showing to his wife. 
Lucy declared it was the prettiest 
house she was ever in. 

like this room better than any 
of the grand ones,” spoke Miss Blake, 
leading to the little north room she 
generally sat in, where we saw her 
breakfasting with IMrs. Cleeve. 

“ it shall be called your room then, 
Theresa,” said Luc}’. ‘‘ Oh yes, it is 
very pretty,” she continued, looking at 
the light paper, flecked with gold, the 
light furniture with its crimson satin 
coverings, the various tasty objects 
scattered about, and the glass doors, 
wide open to the terrace, the blushing 
and sweet dowers, and the smootli 
lawn beyond. 

“ I believe this was the late Lady 
Andinnian’s favorite room,” observed 
Karl. 

“ Let me see,” said Lucy, stepping 
outside, “this must look towards the 
railway station. Oh yes; and Fox- 
wood lies the other way.” 

Op[)Osite to this window some steps 
descended to the lawn from the terrace. 
In very lightness of heart, she ran 
down and up them. Karl was talking 
to Miss Blake. 

“ There’s a room answering to this 
in size and position on the other side 
the house ; as of course you know, he 
observed. “Sir Joseph, I hear, made 
it his ” 

“ Hewitt calls it Sir Karl’s room, 
now,” interrupted Miss Blake. “ You. 
smoke in it, don’t ^mu. Sir Karl ? ” 

“I did smoke in it once or twice 
when I was staying down here during 
the time of mv motlier’s illness,” he re- 
plied. “ But I am not a great smoker. 
Just one cigar at night; and not al- 
ways that,” 

“ Did I see that room, Karl ? ” ask- 
ed his wife. 

“No. It was hardly worth showing 
you, Lucy.” 

“Oh but I should like it better than 
all tlie rest if it’s yours.” 

“ Come and see it then.” 

She put her arm within his, and he 


88 


WIT II IX THE MAZE. 


looked down on her with a smile as 
they went along through the house. 
Miss Blake walked behind, with drawn- 
in-lips. Sir Karl was greatly altered 
in manner, she tliought; all his life 
and spirits had left him: and he did 
not seem in the least glad to see her. 
The room on the other side had 
gray walls and looked altogetlier rather 
dowdy. Books and maps were on the 
shelves, a large ink-stand stood on the 
table, and the chimney-piece was or- 
namented with a huge Chinese tobacco- 
box. 


“Xow, Karl, that great arm-chair 
shall be yours, and this little one mine,’^ 
said Lucy. ‘^And you must let me 
come in when I please — although I 
can see it is to be your business-room.” 

As often as jmu will, my darling.” 

He threw open the glass doors as he 
spoke, stepped across the terrace, and 
down the steps to the lawn — for this 
room answered in every respect to the 
other. This room faced the south ; the 
front of the house the west, and Miss 
Blake’s favorite room the north. The 
sun came slantwise across the flower- 
beds. Sir Karl plucked one of the 
sweetest roses, and brought it to his 
wife. Lucy said nothing as she took it : 
but jMiss Blake, observant Miss Blake, 
saw the lingering touch of their liands; 
the loving glance from Lucy’s eyes to 
his. 

Shall I show you your rooms up 
stairs. Lady Andinnian ? If you have 
not been up.” 

Thank you, I’ll take Lucy myself,” 
said Karl. “ No, we have not been 
up.” 

The rooms they were to occupy lay 
in front, towards the northen end of 
the corridor. The bed-room was large 
and beautifully titted up. Just now 
Aglac had it in a litter, unpacking. 
Two dressing-rooms opened from it. 
Sir Karl’s on the right — the last room 
at that end ; Lucy’s on the left : and 
beyond Lucy’s was another bed-room. 
These four rooms all communicated 
with each other : when their doors 
stood open you might see straight 
through all of them : each one could 
also be entered from the corridor. 

‘‘But what do we want with this 


second bed-room ?” asked Lucy, as she 
stood in it with her husband. 

A full minute elapsed before he an- 
swered her, for it was the room where 
that strange communication, which was 
o’ershadowing his life, had been made 
to him by his mother. The remem- 
brance of the night an<l its startling 
disclosures was very present with him, 
and he turned to the window and put 
his head out, as though gasping for a 
breath of air. 

“ They have not made any change, 
you see, Lucy : I did not give orders. 
It was my mother’s chamber during 
her short span of residence here. The 
next, that little dressing-room of your’s, 
she made her upstairs sitting-room. 
Perhaps you would like to have this 
made into a sitting room for yourself.” 

“ Nay, Karl, if I want to sit upstairs, 
there’s my dressing-room. We will 
let this be as it is. Is that Foxwood ? ” 
she added, pointing to the roofs of 
houses and a church-spire in the dis- 
tance. 

“ Yes, that’s Foxwood.” 

“ And what are all those trees over 
the way?” turning her finger towards 
the right : in fact to the Maze. 
“There are some chimneys amidst 
them. Is it a house?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ A gentleman’s house ? It must 
be pleasant to have neighbors so near, 
if they are nice people. Is it occupied, 
Karl ? ” 

“ I — I fancy so. The truth is, Lucy,” 
— breaking into rather a forced laugh 
— “that I am as yet almost as much 
of a stranger here as 3’ourself. Shall I 
call Aglae ? I am sure you must 
want to get ymur bonnet off.” 

“ Aglad’s there, you know; I am go- 
ing to her. But first of all — ” clasp- 
ing her arms fo-ndly round him and 
lifting her sweet face to his — “ let me 
thank you for this beautiful home. 
Oh, Karl ! how happy we shall bo in 
it.” 

“God willing!” he answered in a 
beseeching tone of ex(|uisite pain. And 
as he held her to him in the moment’s 
ternhwiiess, his chest heaved with a 
stiMiige emotion. 

“ How he loves me,” thought Lucy, 


TAKING AN EVENING STROLL. 


89 




/la.'^sing to her own rooms. For she 
put tlie emotion down to that. I 
wonder if there ever was such love be- 
fore in the world as his and mine ? 
Aglae, I must wear white to-da}".^^ 

She went down to dinner in white 
muslin and white ribbons, with a lily 
in her hair, a ver}’’ bride to look at. 
Poor girl ! it was a gala-day with her, 
this coming home, almost like her 
wedding-day. Poor wife. 

The onl}^ one to talk much at dinner 
was Lucy. Miss Blake was not in one 
of her amiable moods: Sir Karl and 
Lucy had both dressed for dinner ; she 
had not, not supposing they would, 
and that helped to put her out. Karl 
was silent and grave as usual, just like 
a man preoccupied. His wife had be- 
come used to his air of sadness. She 
set it down, partly to the cause of the 
mysterious communication he had made 
to her the night before their marriage, 
and which had never since been men- 
tioned between them, and partly to his 
ill-fated brother’s trouble and shocking 
death. Therefore Lucy took the sad- 
ness as a matter of course and never 
would appear to notice it. 

Miss Blake spoke of St. Jerome’s: 
telling with much exultation all that 
had been done. But Sir Karl looked 
grave. The good sound doctrines and 
worship of what used to be called 
High-Church were, his own: but he 
did not like these new and extreme 
movements that caused scandal. 

You say that this St. Jerome’s is 
on my land. Miss Blake V ” 

On your land. Sir Karl : but in 
Farmer Truefit’s occu[)ation. The 
consent lay with him and he gave it.” 

‘MVell, I hope you will have the 
good sense not to go too far.” 

Miss Blake lifted her head, and 
asked Hewitt for some bread. Lucy’s 
pretty face had flushed all over, and 
she glanced timidly at her husband. 
Kemeinbering past days, she had not 
much faith in Theresa’s moderation. 

‘‘ When Mrs. Cieeve, knowing 
Lucy’s inexperience and youth, sug- 
gested that I siiould stay here for some 
time after her return home, Sir Karl, 
if agreeable to you and to her, and I 


acquiesced, wishing to be useful to 
both of jmu in any wav that might be, 

I had no conception there was not a 
church open for daily worship in the 
place. I must go to daily worship, 
Sir Karl. It is as essential to me as 
my bread and cheese.” 

‘‘I’m sure I can say nothing against 
daily worship — to those who have the 
time for it,” rejoined Karl. “It is 
not that T fear, iMiss Blake ; think how 
beautiful the daily service was in Win- 
chester Cathedral.” 

“ Oh of course ; yes,” replied IMiss 
Blake, in a slighting tone ; the cathe- 
dral service was very well as far as it 
went. But you need not fear, Sir 
Karl.” 

“Thank you,” he replied; “I am 
glad to hear you say so.” And the 
subject dropped. 

The two ladies were alone for a few 
minutes after dinner in the North 
room. Lucy was standing at the open 
window. 

“ Of course 3’ou know all about the 
place b}^ this time, Theresa,” she sud- 
denly said. “ There’s a house over 
there amidst those trees: who lives in 
it?” 

“ Some lad^y, I believe, who chooses 
to keep herself ver}" retired,” replied 
Miss Blake. 

“ Oh, I asked Karl, but he could 
not tell me : he says he is nearly as 
much a stranger here as I am. 
Theresa ! I do think that’s a nightin- 
gale ! Listen.” 

“ Yes we have nightingales here,” 
said Miss Blake, indilferently. 

Lucy crossed the lawn, and paced 
before the cluster of trees. The bird^ 
was just beginning its sweet notes. 
Karl came out, drew her hand within 
his arm, and walked with her, until 
iMiss Blake called out that the tea was 
waiting. 

But Lucy yet was not very strong. 
She began to feel tired, and a sudden 
headache came on. When tea was 
over Karl said she must go to bed. 

“ I think I will,” she answered. 

“ Ijjiyou will pardon 1113^ leaving 3'ou, 
Theresa. Good night.” 

Karl went up with her and stayed a 


90 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


few minutes talking. In coming down 
lie went straiglit to his smoking-room 
and sliut tlie door. 

“ Very polite, I’m sure ! thought 
]\Iiss Hlake, resentfully. 

Hut the next moment she heard him 
leave it and come towards the sitting- 
room. 

“ I will wish you good night too, 
IMiss Blake,” he said, offering his hand. 
‘•Bray ring for anything you may 
require: you are more at home, you 
know, than we are,” he concluded 
with a slight lauglr. 

Are you going to bed also. Sir 
Karl ? ” 

I ? Oh no. I am going into m}^ 
smoking room. I have a letter to 
write.” 

Now IMiss Blake resented this fright- 
fully. Lucy might go to bed ; it was 
best for her as she was fatigued; but 
that Sir Karl should thus unceremo- 
niously leave her to her own company 
at nine o’clock, she could not pardon. 
It was evident he thought nothing of 
her, even as a friend ; nothing. 

Dropping her forehead upon her 
hands she sat there she knew not how 
long. When she looked up it was 
nearly dark. Her thoughts had wan- 
dered to IMr. Cattacomb, and she won- 
dered whether he would be arriving by 
the last train. 

Throwing a shawl over her shoul- 
ders, Miss Blake went into the garden, 
and thence bj^ one of the small private 
gates into the road. It was still and 
solitary. The nightingales were sing- 
ing now, and she paced along, lost in 
thought, past the Maze and onwards. 

She had got nearly as far as the road 
to Boxwood, when the advance of two 
or three passengers from the station 
told her the train was in. They turn- 
ed off lo the village, walking rapidly: 
but neither of them was the expected 
clergyman. 

What can have kept him ? ” she 
murmured, as she retraced her steps. 

There was no moon, but the summer 
sky was light: not much of it, how- 
ever, penetrated to the sides of the road 
through the overshadowing trees. 
Miss Blake had nearly reached the 


iMaze when she heard the approach of 
footsteps. Not caring to be seen out so 
late alone, she drew back between the 
hedge and the clump of trees at the 
gate, and waited. 

To her vexation, peeping froth from 
her place of shelter, she recognized Sir 
Karl Andinnian. He was stealing 
along under the shadow of the hedge 
too — stealing along, as it seemed to 
jMiss Iffake, covertly and quietly. 
When he reached the gate he looked 
up the road and down the road, appar- 
ently to make sure that no one was 
within sight or hearing: then he took 
a small key from his })Ocket, unlocked 
the strong gate with it, entered, locked 
it after him again, and disappeared 
within the trees of the veritable maze. 

To say that Miss Blake was struck 
with amazement would be saying lit- 
tle. What could it mean ? What 
could Sir Karl want there? He had 
told his wife he knew not who lived in 
it. And yet he carried a private key 
to the place, and covertly stole into it 
on this, the first night of his return ! 
The queer ideas that floated through 
Miss Blake’s mind, rapidly chasing 
each other, three parts bewildered 
her. They culminated in one emphat- 
ically spoken sentence. 

‘‘ I should like to get inside too ! ” 

Softly making her way across the 
road to enter the Court’s grounds by 
the nearest gate, she chanced to lift 
her eyes to Clematis Cottage. The 
Venetian shutters were closed. But 
peering through one of them from the 
dark room was a face that she was sure 
was Mr. Smith’s. It looked just as 
though he had been watching Sir Karl 
Andinnian. 


CHAPTER XIIT. 

MISS 13LAKK GETS IN. 

Still no signs of the Rev. Guy Cat- 
tacomb. The morning following the 
night told of in the last chapter rose 
bright and sunny. Miss Blake rose 
with it, her energetic mind full of 
thought. 


MISS BLAKE GETS IN. 


91 


I wonder bow I am going to begin 
to keep lioLise?^^ said Lac}^ with a 
laugli, when she got up from the break- 
fiist table, lier cheeks as briglit as the 
pink summer muslin she wore. “ Do I 
go into the kitchen, Theresa?” 

You go with the cook to the lar- 
der,” replied Theresa, gravel3^ See 
what remains in it from yesterday, and 
give 3mur orders accordingly. Sliall I 
go with you this morning. Lady An- I 
dinnian ? ” 

^•Oh I wisli you would! I wish 
' you’d put me in the way of it. In 
Paris, when I was going to be marri- 
ed, mamma regretted she had not 
shown me more of housekeeping at 
home.” 

You have I believe an honest cook : 
and that is a great thing for an inex- 
perienced mistress,” said Miss Blake. 

As if cooks were ever dishonest in 
the countiy!” cried Sir Karl, laugh- 
ing — and it was the first laugh Miss 
Blake had heard from his lips. You 
must go to \mur grand London ser- 
vants for that — making their perqui- 
sites out of everything, and feeding 
their friends and the policeman I” 

And then, Karl, when I come 
back from the larder, you will take me 
about everywhere, won’t you ? ” whis- 
liered Luc^’, leaniitg fondlj^ oveY his 
shoulder as Miss Blake went on. I 
want to see all about the grounds.” 

He nodded and let his cheek rest 
for a moment upon hers. Go and or- 
der your roast beef.. And — Lucy 1” 

His manner had changed to serious- 
ilbss. He turned in his chair to face 
her. Ids brow flushing as he took her 
hands. 

Y’^ou will not be extravagant, Lu- 
cy — hts voice sinking to a whisper 
lower than hers. When I told you 
of that — that trouble, which had fallen ' 
upon me and might fall deeper, I said 
that it would cost me a large portion < 
of in}^ income. You remember ? ” 

“Oh Karl! do 3^ou think I could ! 
forget ? We will live as quietly and 
simply as 3mu please. It is ail the i 
same to me.” ] 

“ Thank 3mu, my dear wife.” ] 

Theresa stood at the open hall door, j 
looking from it while she waited. “ I 


was thinking,” slie said, wlien Lady 
Andinnian’s step was heard, “ that it 
really" might be cheaper in the end 
if 3mu took a regular housekeeper, 
Luc 3% as 3mu are so inexperienced. 
It would save 3^11 a great deal of 
trouble.” 

“The trouble’s nothing, Theresa; 
and I should like to learn. I’d not 
think of a housekeeper. I should be 
I afraid of her.” 

“ Oh, very well. As you please, of 
course. But when 3^11 get 3^11 r whole 
staff of servants, the house full of 
them, the controlling of the supplies 
for so man3^ will very much embarrass 
you.” 

“But we don’t mean to have our 
house full of servants, Theresa. We 
do not care to set up on a grand scale, 
either of us. Just about as papa and 
mamma live, will be enough for us in- 
doors.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Miss Blake. 

“ We must have a coachman — Karl 
thinks he shall take on Sir Joseph’s; 
the man has asked to come — and, I 
su[)pose, one footman to help Hewitt, 
and a groom. That’s all. I think we 
have enough maids now.” 

“ You should consider that Sir Karl’s 
income is a large one, Lucy,” spoke iMiss 
Blake in a tone of loft 3" reproach. “It 
is absurd to take 3mur papa’s scale of 
living as a guide for 3murs.’ 

But Sir Karl does not mean to spend 
his income : he has a reason for saving 
it.” 

“ Oil that’s another thing,” ' said 
Miss Blake. “ What is his reason ? ” 

The young Lady Andinnian could 
have reproached her rebellious tongue. 
She had spoken the hasty words in the 
heat of argument, without thought. 
What right, either as a wife or a pru- 
dent woman, had she to allow allusion 
to it to escape her lips ? Her rejoin- 
der was given slowl3^ and calml3\ 

“ My husband is quite riglit not to 
set out by spending all his income, 
Theresa. We should both of us think it 
needless extravagance. Is this the 
kitchen ? Let us go in here first. I 
must get acquainted with all my place 
and people.” 

The business transacted, Luc3' went 


P2 


WITH IX THE MAZE. 




out with Karl. Tlieresa watched tliem 
on to the lawn and thence ronnd the 
house, Lucy in her brond-briinined 
straw hat and lier arm within her hus- 
band’s. jMiss Hlake then dressed her- 
self and walked rapidly to St. Je^ 
rome’s. Some faint hope animated 
her that ]Mr. Cattacomb might have 
arrived, and be already inaugurating 
the morning service. But no. St. 
Jerome’s was closely shut, and no Mr. 
Cattacomb was there. 

She retraced her steps, lingering to 
rob the hedges of a wild honey-suckle 
or a dog-rose. This non-arrival of 
Mr. Cattacomb began to trouble her, 
and she could not imagine why, if he 
were prevented coming, he had not 
written to saj^ so. Reaching the Maze 
M iss Blake woke up from these 
thoughts with quite a start of sur- 
prise : for the gate was open and a 
woman servant stood there, holding 
colloquy with the butcher’s boy on 
horseback ; a young man in a blue 
frock, no hat, and basket on his arm. 
A middle-aged and very respectable 
servifint, but somewhat old-fashioned in 
her appearance : a spare figure straiglit 
up and down, in a dark cotton gown 
and white muslin cap. In her haml 
was a dish with some meat on it, 
which she had' just received from the 
basket, and she aj)peared to be re- 
proaching the boy on the score of the 
last joint’s tougliness. 

‘‘This hot weather one can’t keep 
nothing hardly,” said the boy, in 
apology. ‘‘ I was to ask for the book, 
please ma’am ” 

“The book!” returned the woman. 
“ Why I meant to have brought it out. 
Wait there, and I’ll get it.” 

The boy, having perhaps the spirit 
of restlessness upon him, backed his 
steed and turned him round and round 
in the road like a horse in a mill. 
Miss Blake saw her opportunity and 
sii[)ped in. Gliding along the path, 
she cojicealed herself behind a huge 
tree-trunk near the hedge, until the 
servant should have come and gone 
aijain. ^liss Blake soon caught sight 
of her skirts amid the trees of the 
maze. 


I “ Here’s the book,” said she to the 
I boy. “Ask your master to make it up 
for the monih, and I’ll pa 3 ^” And, 
shutting and locking the gate, she 
plunged into the maze again and dis- 
appeared. 

When people do covet things in a 
hurry, they caix’t expect to have all 
their senses about them, and Miss 
Blake had probably forgotten that sln^ 
should be locked in. However — here 
she was in the position, and must make 
the best of it. 

First of all, she went round the path, 
intending to see where it led to. It 
was fen(;ed in by the garden wall, the 
high hedge and shrubs on one side, by 
the trees of the maze on the other. 
Suddenly she came to what looked like 
a low vaulted passage built in the 
maze, which probably communicated 
with the house: but she could not tell. 
Its door was fast, and Miss Blake 
could see nothing. 

Pursuing her wa}'’ along the walk, 
it brought her round to the entrance 
gate again, and she remembered Tom 
Pepp’s words about the path going 
round and round and leading to no- 
where. Miss Blake was not one to be 
daunted. She had come in to look 
about her, and she meant to do it. 
She plunged into the maze. 

Again had she cause to recal jMaster 
Pepp’s account, — “Once get in to that 
there maze and you’d never get out 
again without the clue.” Miss Blake 
began to fear tliat tliere was only too 
much truth in it. For a full hour in 
reality, and it seeme<l to her like two, 
did she wander about and wander 
again. She was in the maze, and 
could not get out of it. 

K^he stood against the back of a tree, 
her face turning hot and cold. It took 
a great deal to excite that young wo- 
man’s pulses : but she did not like the 
position in which she had placed her- 
self. 

She must try again. Forward 
thither, backward liither, round and 
about, in and out. Xo ; no escape ; 
no clue ; no opening : nothing but the 
same interminable trees and the nar- 
row paths so exactly like one another. 


MISS BLAKE GETS JN. 


93 


What will become of me? gasp- 
ed Miss Blake. 

At that moment a voice very near 
rose upon her ear — the voice of tlie 
servant she had seen. Yes, ma’am, 
I'll do it after dinner.” 

Unconsciously Miss Blake liad wan- 
dered to the confines of the Maze that 
were close on the lionse. A few steps 
further and she could peep out of her 
iinjn-isoninent. 

A small, low, pretty gabled-house of 
red brick. A sitting-room window, 
large and thrown open, faced JMiss 
Blake; the porcli entrance, of which 
she could get a slanting glimpse, front- 
ed a grass-plat, surrounded b}^ most 
beautiful flower-beds, with a green- 
house at the end. It was a snug, 
compact spot, the whole shut in by a 
high laurel hedge. On the grass stood 
the woman servant, spreading some 
bits of linen to dry, that Miss Blake 
made out to be cambric handkerchiefs: 
her mistress had probably been speak- 
ing to her from the porch. An old 
man, with either a slight hump on his 
back or a dreadful stoop, was bending 
over a distant flower-bed. lie wore a 
wide, yellow straw hat, and a smock 
frock similar to that of the butcher’s 
boy, only the latter’s was blue and the 
old man’s white. His hair was gray 
and he apjieared to be toothless : but 
in his prime he must have been tall 
and powerful. jMiss Blake made her 
comments. 

AVhat an extraordinaiy solitude for 
a 3mung person to live in ! But what 
choice flowers those look to be ! That 
toothless old man must be the garden- 
er ! he looks too aged and inlirm for 
his work. Why she live here? 

There must be more in it than meets 
the eye. Perhaps — ” 

The soliloquy was arrested. The 
door of the sitting-room opened, and a 
young lady entered. Crossing to the 
window, she stood looking at some- 
thing on the table underneath, in full 
view of Miss Blake. A fair girl, with 
a delicate face, damask cheeks, blue 
eyes, and hair th-at gleamed like 
threads of light gold. 

' Good gracious ! how lovely she 


is ! ” was Miss Blake’s involuntary 
tliought. Could this young girl be 
Mrs. Grey ? 

She left the window again. The 
next minute the keys of a piano were 
touched. A prelude was played softlv, 
and then there rose a verse of those 
lines in the ‘‘ Vicar of Wakefield ” 
that you all know so well, the voice 
of the singer exceeding!}' melodious 
and simple : 

“ When lovely woman stoops to folly, 

And finds too late that men betray ” 

Miss Blake had never in her life 
cared for the song, but it bore now a 
singular charm. Every word was dis- 
tinct, and she listened to tlie end. A 
curious speculation crossed her. 

W^as this young lady singing the 
lines in character? ^‘Heaven help 
her tlien ! ” cried IMiss Blake — for she 
was not all liardness. 

But how was she, herself, to get 
away? She might remain there un- 
sought for ever. There was nothing 
for it but boldl}" sliowing herself. And, 
as the servant was then coming back 
across the lawn with some herbs which 
she had apparentl}' been to gather, 
]\Iiss Blake wound out of the maze, 
and presented herself before the wo- 
man’s astonislied eyes. 

She made the best excuse she could. 
Had wandered inside the gate, attract- 
ed by the mass of beautiful trees, and 
lost herself amidst them. After a 
pause of wondering consideration, the 
I servant understood how it must have 
been — that she had got in during her 
temporary absence from the gate when 
she went to fetch the butcher’s book ; 
and she knew what a long while she 
must have been there. 

“ I’ll let you -out,” she said. ^^It’s 
a pit}' you came in.” 

Very rapidly the woman walked on 
through the maze, jNIiss Blake follow- 
ing her. There were turnings and 
twistings, and the latter strove to 
catch some clue to the route. In vain. 

I One turning, one path seemed just like 
I another. 

Hoes your mistress live quite alone 
here ?” she asked of the servant. 


94 


M' I THIN THE MAZE. 


‘^Yes. ma’am/’ was the reply, more 
civilly spoken — for, tliat tlie servant 
liad been nuich put out by tlie occur- 
rence, her manner testified. ‘‘She’s 
all alone, except for me and my old 
man.*’ 

“Your old man?” exclaimed ]\[iss 
Blake questionin^ly. 

“ Yy husband,” explained the wo- 
man, [)erceiving she was not under- 
stood. “ He’s the gardener.” 

“Oh, I saw him,” said IMiss Blake. 
“ But he looks quite too old and in- 
firm to do much.” 

“He’s not as old as he looks — and 
he has got a good deal of work in liim 
still. Of course wlien a man gets 
rheumatics, he can’t be as active as 
before.” 

“ How very dull your mistress must 
be!” 

“ Not at all, ma’am. She has her 
birds, and floweh’S, and music, and 
work. And the garden she’s very fond 
of: she’ll spend hours in the green- 
l)ouse over the plants. 

“ Mrs. Ore}^, I think I have heard 
her called.” 

“ Yes, Mrs. Grey.” 

“ Well now — where’s her hus- 
band ? ” 

“ She’s not got a hus — At least, — 
her husband’s not here.” 

The first part of the answer was be- 
gun in a fierce, resentful tone: but at 
the break the woman calmed down. 
Miss Blake was silently observant, 
pondering all in lier inquisitive mind. 

“ jNfr. Grey is traveling abroad just 
now,” continued tlie woman. “Here 
we are.” 

Yes, there the}’- were, escaped from 
the maze and the iron gate before 
them. The woman took a key from 
lier pocket and unlocked it — ;iust as Sir 
Karl had taken a key from his pocket 
the previous night, idiss Blake saw 
now what a small key it was, to undo 
so large a gate. 

‘Wrood nrorning,” she said. “Thank 
you very much. It was exceedingly 
thoughtless of me to stroll in.” 

Good day to you, ma’am.” 

Very busy was Miss Blake’s brain as 
she went liorne. The Maze puzzled 


her. That this young and pretty wo- 
man should be living alone in that 
perfect seclusion with only two ser- 
vants to take care of her, one of them 
at least old and decrepid, was the very 
oddest thing she had ever met with. 
i\riss Blake knew the world tolerably 
well ; and, so hir as her experience 
went, a man whose wife was so young 
and so lovely as this wife, would talce 
her traveling with' him. Altogether, 
it seemed very singular : and more sin- 
gular still seemed the stealthy and fa- 
miliar entrance, that she had witnessed, 
of Sir Karl Andinnian. 

It could not be said that Lady An- 
dinnian had, no acquaintance at Fox- 
wood. She knew the Yicar’s eldest 
daughter, IMargaret, who had occasion- 
ally stayed with Mr. and IMrs. Blake at 
Winchester: the two clergjunen were 
acquainted, having been at college to- 
gether. Lady Andinnian went at once 
to see iss Sumnor; walking alone, for 
Karl was busy. The church, a very 
pretty one, with a tapering si^ire, was 
just through the village 3 the vicarage 
joined it, a nice hous’t^,' ’with a veran- 
dah running along tfre front, and a 
good garden and glebefand. 

On a couch in a shaded room, lay a 
lady of some thirty, or more, years of 
age ; her face thin, with upright lines 
between the eyebrows, telling of long- 
standing trouble or pain, perhai>s of 
both ; her hands busy witli soine nee- 
dle-work. Lady Andinnian, who had 
not given her name, but simply asked 
to see Miss Sumnor, was shown in. 
She did not recognize her at the first 
moment. 

“ Margaret ! It cannot be you.” 

IMargaret Sumnor smiled her sweet, 
patient smile, and held Lad}^ Andinni- 
an’s hand in hers. “Yes, it is, Lucy 
— if I may presume still to call you 
so. You find me changed. Worn and 
aged.” 

“ It is true. Y’oulook altogether dif- 
ferent. And yet, it is not three years 
since we parted. Mrs. if lake has told 
me you were ill and had to lie down a 
great deal. 

“ I lie here alwa3"s, Lucy. Getting 
off only at night to go to 013^ bed in 


MISS BLAKE GETS IN. 


95 


the next room. Now and then, if I 
am particularly well, they draw me 
across the garden to church in a hand- 
chair : but that is very seldom. Sit 
down. Here, close to me.” 

^‘And what is the matter with 
you ? ” 

“It has to do with the spine, my 
dear. A bright young girl like you 
need not be troubled with the compli- 
cation of particulars. The worst of it 
is, Lucy, that I shall be as I am now 
for life.” 

“ Oh Margaret ! ” 

Miss Sumnor raised her work again 
and set a few stitches, as if determined 
not to give way to any kind of emo- 
tion. Lady Andinnian’s face wore 
q’lite a frightened look. 

“ Surchj not for always, IMargaret ! ” 

“ I believe so. The doctors say so. 
Papa went to the expense of having a 
veiy clever man down from London ; 
but he only confirmed what Mr. Moore 
had feared.” 

Then, Margaret, I think it was a 
cruel thing to let jmu know it. Hope 
and good spirits go so far to help re-* 
coveiy, no matter what the illness may 
be. ])id the doctor tell you ?” 

“ They told my father, not me. I 
learnt it through — through a sort of 
accident, Lucy,” added Miss Sumnor: 
who would not explain that it was 
through the carelessness — to call it by 
a ligl'it name — of her stepmother. 

“ After all, it is best that I should 
know it. I see it is now, if I did not 
at the time.” 

“ How it must have tried you !” 

“Oh it did; it did. What I felt 
for months, Lucy, I cannot describe. 

I had grown to be so useful to m}^ dear , 
father : he had begun to want me so 
veiy much ; to depend upon me for so 
many things : and to find that I was j 
suddenly cut off from being of any help 
to him, to be instead only a burden ! — 
even now I cannot bear to recall it. It 
was that that changed me, Luc}^ : in a 
short while I had gone in looks from a 
young woman into an aged one.” 

“No no, not that. xVnd jmu have to 
bear it alwa^^s ! ” 

“ The bearing is light now,” said 


Miss Sumnor, looking up with a happy 
smile. “ One day, Luc}^ when I was 
in a sad mood of distress and inward 
repining, papa came in. He saw 
a little of what I felt ; he saw my tears, 
for he had. come upon me quickly. 
Down he sat in that very chair that 
you are sitting in now. ‘ iMargaret, 
are you realizing that this calamity has 
come upon you from God — that it is 
His will ? ’ he asked : and he talked 
to me as he had never talkcii be- 
fore. That night, as I lay awake 
thinking, the new light seemed to 
dawn upon me. Ht is, it is God’s 
will,’ I said, ^ why should I repine in 
misery ? ’ Bit by bit, Lucj^ after that 
the light grew greater. I gained — oh 
such comfort ! — in a few weeks more I 
seemed to lie right under God’s protec- 
tion ; to be, as it were, always in His 
sheltering .* rms : and my life is hap- 
pier now than I can tell you of, in 
spite of very many and constant 
trials.” 

“ And you manage to amuse your- , 
self, 1 see,” resumed Lucy, breaking the 
pause that had ensued. 

“ xVmuse myself! I can assure you 
my da\'s are quite busy and useful 
ones. I sew — as you perceive, resting 
my elbows on the board ; see, this is a 
pillow case that I am darning. I read, 
and can even write a note; I manage 
the housekeeping ; and I have my class 
of poor children here and teach them 
as before. The}^ are ten times more 
obedient and considerate, seeing me as 
I am, than when I was in health.” 

Lucy could readil}^ believe it. “ And 
now tell me, Margaret, what brought 
this illness on ? ” 

“ Nothing in particular. It must 
Iiave been coming on for years, only we 
did not suspect it. Do you remember 
j at the rectory, I never used to run or 
walk much, but always wanted to sit 
still, and dear IMrs. Blake ^would call 
me idle ? It was coming on then. 
But now, Lucy, let me hear about 
yourself. I need not ask if you are 
happy.” 

Lucy blushed rosy red : She was 
only too ha[)py: and gave an account 
of her marriage and sojourn abroad, 


96 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


promising to bring her luisband some 
clay soon to see ]\Iiss Sumnor. Xext, 
tbe\" spoke of the new pla(;e — St. Je- 
rome’s, and the invalid's brow wore a 
look of pain. 

“It lias so grieved pjipa, Lncj". In- 
deed, there’s no want of another church 
in the place, even if it were a proper 
church, there's no one to attend it; our 
own is too large for the population. 
Papa is grieved at the movement, and 
at the way it is being done ; it is any- 
thing but orthodox. And to think 
that it should be Theresa Elake who 
has put it forward ! 

“ The excuse she makes to us is that 
she wanted a daily service.*’ 

“ A year ago papa took to hold daily 
service, and he had to discontinne it, 
for no one attended. Very often there 
would be only himself and the clerk.” 

“ I do not suppose this affair of The- 
resa’s will last,” said Lucy kindly, and 
she took her leave. 

The}^ met at dinner : Sir Karl, Lucy, 
and ]\liss JMake. Luc}" told them of 
lier visit to Margaret Sumnor, and 
asked her husband to go there with her 
on his return from London, whither he 
was proceeding on the morrow. IMiss 
Elake had not heard of the intention 
before, and inquired of Sir Karl 
whether he was going for long. 

“For a couple of days, perhaps 
tliree,” he answered. “ I have several 
matters of business to attend to.” 

“I think I might as well have gone 
with you, Karl,” said his wife. 

“Not this time, Lucy. You have 
only just come home from traveling, 
3 mu ’knovv^\.hyl need repose.” 

Miss Elakg, having previousl}^ taken 
lier determination to do it, mentioned, 
in a Cjasual, aiiy kind of wa}", her ad- 
venture of the morning: not however 
giving to the intrusion quite its true 
aspect, and not sa3’ing that slie ha’d 
seen the young lady. She had “stroll- 
ed accidentall3^ ” into the place called 
the Maze, she said, seeing the gate 
open, and lost herself. A woman ser- 
vant came to her assistance and let her 
out again ; but not before she had 
caught a glimpse of the interior : the 
pretty house and lawn and flowers, and 
•^he infirm old gardener. 


To INIiss Blake’s surprise — or, ratli- 
er, perhaps not to her sur[)rise — Sir 
Karl’s pale face turned to a burning 
red. He made her no answer, but 
whisked his head round to the butler, 
who stood behind him. 

“Hewitt,” he cried sharplv, “this 
is not the same hock that we had yes- 
terday.” 

“Yes, Sir Karl, it is. At least I — 

I believe it is.” 

Hewitt took up the bottle on the 
sideboard and examined it. Miss 
Blake thought he looked as confused 
as his master. “ He pla3’s tricks with 
the wine,” was the mental conclusion 
she drew. 

Hewitt came round, grave as ever, 
and filled up the glasses again. Karl 
began talking to him about the wine 
in the cellar: but IMiss Blake was not 
going to let her subject drop. 

“ l)o you know this place that the3' 
call the Maze, Sir Karl ?” 

“ Scarcely.” 

“ Or its mistress, IMrs. Gre}^ ? ” 

“ I have seen her,”, shortl}’ replied 
Karl. 

“ Oh, have you ! When ? ” 

“ She wrote me a note relative to 
some repairs, and I went over.” 

“Since you were back this time, do 
3mu mean ?” 

“ Oh no. It was just after nyy 
mother’s death.” 

“Don’t you think it very singular 
that so young a woman should be liv- 
ing there alone ? ” 

“ I suppose she likes it. The hus- 
band is said to be abroad.” 

“ You have no acquaintance with the 
people ? ” persisted Miss Blake. 

“ Oh dear no.” 

“And going in with a hey from In's^ 
own pocket !” thought Miss Blake, as 
she drew in her lips. 

“Foxwood and its inhabitants, as I 
told Liuy, are tolerably strange to 
me,” added Sir Karl. “ Lucy, you 
were talking of Margaret Sumnor : 
What age is she ? ” 

He was resolute in turning the con- 
versation from the Maze : as J^liss 
Blake saw. What was his motive ? 
All kinds of comical ideas were in lier 
mind, not all of them good ones. 


MISS BLAKE OX THE WATCH. 97 


ril watch, she mentally said. 
‘‘In the interests of religion, to say 
nothing of respectability, Vll watcliP 


CHAPTER XIY. 

MISS BLAKE ON THE WATCH. 

“ Lucy, you will come with me to 
the opening service? 

Lady Andinniaii shook her head. 
“ I think not, Theresa.” 

“ Why, it would be quite a distrac- 
tion for .you,” urged Miss Blake using 
the word in the French sense. 

Sir Karl had been in London some 
three or four days now ; and Lnc}^, all 
aweary without him, was longing and 
looking for his return every liour of 
the live-long summer’s day. But she 
was proof against this olfered tempta- 
tion. 

“I don’t think Karl would like me 
to go to it, Theresa. Thank you all 
tlie same.” 

Do you mean to make Sir Karl 
your guide and model through life, 

Lucy?” and Lad}^ Andinnian, 

sincere and simple herself, detected not 
the covert sarcasm. 

“ I hope I shall never do, or wish 
to do, anything that he would object 
to,” was her answer, a sweet blush 
dyeing her cheeks. 

“Well, if you won’t appear at 
church, will you attend the kettle-drum 
afterwards, Luc\" ? ” 

“ The kettle-drum ! ” echoed Lucy. 

“ What kettle-drum ? ” 

“ We are going to hold one at Mrs. 
Jinks's — that is, in Mr. Cattacomb’s 
A'ooms — for the purpose of introducing 
him to some of his friends, and to 
organize the parish work.” 

Lad}" Andinnian looked up in sur- 
prise. “ The parish work ? What 
can you be talking of, Theresa ?” 

“ Oh, there will be district visiting, 
and that. It must all be arranged 
and organized.” 

“Will it not be interfering with Mr. 
Sumnor?” 

“Xot at all. Shall I come round 

6 


this way and call for you as we return 
from the service ? ” 

“ Tjiank you, no, Theresa ; I would 
rather not. I do not think I should 
myself much care for the kettle-drnm." 

“ Very well,” coolly replied i^Li^.■» 
Blake. “As you j)lease, of course, 
Lady Andinnian.” 

The service of St. Jerome’s was at 
length about to be inaugurated: for 
the Reverend Guy Cattacomb had duly 
ap[)eared after a few days’ delay, for 
which he satisfactorily accounted. Ic 
was to be held in the afternoon, he 
having arrived in the morning; and 
Miss Blake, while talking to Lady 
Andinnian, was already dressed for it. 
She started forth alone: just, as other 
eager young women, mostly yo-ung, 
some middle-aged, were starting for it, 
and flocking into St. Jerome’s. 

Much inward speculation had existed 
as to what the new parson would be 
like ; and the ladies looked at hii'.i 
eagerly when he entereJ from the 
vestry to commence the sevice. They 
saw a tall young man in a narrow sur- 
plice, with a sheep-skin tippet worn 
hind before, and a cross at the back in 
the opening : spectacles; no hair on his 
face, and not over much on his head, a 
few tufts of it only standing up like 
young carrots ; eyes very much turned 
up. Certainly, as to personal beauty, 
the new pastor could not boast great 
things ; but he made up for it in zeal, 
and — if such a thing may be said of a 
clergyman — in vanity ; for that he was 
upon remarkably good terms with him- 
self and his looks, every tone and ges-. 
ture betrayed* It was ra^ther a novel 
service, but a very attractive gne. M]*. 
Cattacomb had a good sonorous voice, 
through it was marred by an affected 
accent and a drawling kind o^ delivery 
that savored of insincerity, and was 
most objectionably out of place. jMiss 
Jane St. Henry played the harmoni- 
um ; and the young ladies’ singing, so 
far as it went, was good, but it wanted 
men’s voices. There was a short ser- 
mon, very rapidly delivered, and not 
to be understood — quite, after a new 
fashion of the day. During its pro- 
g,";ess, little Miss- Etheridge happened 


98 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


to look around, and saw Mr. ]\Ioore, the 
surjjfeon, at tlie back. 

‘‘If you’ll believe me, there’s old 
]\Ioore here ! ” she whispered to jMary 
St. Henry. 

Yes the surcjeon was there. He had 
laughed a little over this curious new 
place that was being called a church, 
and said at home tliat di\y that he 
should look in and see what its services 
were to be like. He was more surprised 
than pleased. Just as JMr. Smith the 
auent asked, Is it Eoman Catholic or 
Protestant? so did Mr. Moore mentally 
ask the question now. The place was 
pretty full. Some few people had come 
over from Basham to be present. Mr. 
^Moore's eye^ went ranging amid the 
chairs, scanning the congregation. His 
daughters were not there. They are 
too sensible, thought the doctor. But 
the fact was, the Misses Moore liad 
been afraid to come. Hearing their 
father sa}’’ he would look in, they 
deemed it wise to keep away — and did 
s(», to their own deep mortification and 
disappointment. Mr. Moore was an 
easy tempered man, and an indulgent 
father; but if once in a way he did 
hy chance issue an edict, it might 
not be disobeyed — and had he seen 
them there witli his own e\ms, he might 
have prohibited their going for the fu- 
ture. So they allowed policy to prevail, 
and stayed at home. 

• What with the opening service, and 
what with the coming party at Mrs. 
Jinks*s, Boxwood was that day stirred 
to its centre. The preparations for the 
kettle drum were on an exhaustive scale, 
the different ladies having vied with 
each other in sending in supplies. But- 
ter, cream, delicate bread and cakes, 
jam, marmalade, choice fruits, biscuivs, 
and other things too numerous to men- 
tion. Miss Blake had taken a huge 
ipackage of tea, and some beautiful 
' flowers, the latter offering cajoled out 
of old Maclean, the head gardener at 
tlie Court. 

The walk to St. Jerome’s and back, 
together with the excitement of the 
new service, had made them thirsty, 
and it was universally agreed to take 
tea iirsi, though only four o’clock, and 


proceed to business afterwards. The 
table groanedunder the weight of good 
things on it, and Miss Blake presided. 
The room was too small for the com- 
pany, who sat or stood as they could, 
elbowing each other, and making much 
of Mr. Cattacomh. Tongues were going 
fast, Mr. Cattacomb’s amidst them, 
and IMiss Blake was geting hot with 
the work of incessantly filling cups 
from the tea-pot, when a loud kmock, 
announcing further visitors, shook the 
street door and Paradise Bow. 

“ Who can it be ? I’m sure we have 
no room for more ! ” 

Mrs. Jinks went to see. Throwing, 
open the door, there stood the Misses 
Moore. Though debarred of the open- 
ing service, they would not be done 
out of the kettle-drum. 

“ Are they here yet, Mrs. Jinks ? ” 
cried the young ladies eagerly. 

“ Yes, they are here,” replied the 
Widow Jinks, her cap (clean for the 
occasion, and no bonnet) trembling 
with suppressed wrath. 

“ Oh dear ! Has tea begun ? ” 
“Begun, Miss Jemimia! it’s to be 
hoped it’s three-parts over. I’ll tell 
you what it is, young ladies: when 1 
agreed to let my parlors to the llever- 
end Cattakin, I didn’t bargain to keep 
the whole parish in kettle-drumming. 
Leastways, not to wait on ’em ; and 
bile kettles for ’em, and toast muffins 
for ’em by the hour at a stretch. I 
thought what a nice quiet lodger I 
should have— a single man, and him a 
minister! Instead of which I might 
1 just as well keep an inn.” 

The young ladies walked on, wisely 
giving no answer, and entered the par- 
lor. They were [)resented to Mr. Cat- 
tacomb, aiid joined the tea-table. 

Kettle drums, as we are all aware, 
cannot last forever, and before six 
o’clock Miss Blake was on her way 
back to Boxwood Court. The discus- 
sion as to district visiting and other 
matters was postponed to another duy, 
Mr. Cattacomh pleading fatigue (ami 
no wonder); and Miss Blake who 
was in point of fact the prime mover 
and prop and stay of it all — -inwani- 
ly thinking that a less crowded meet- 


MISS BLAKE ON THE WATCH. 


99 


iiig would be more conducive to busi- 
ness. As she was nearing the gate 
at Foxwood Court sbe met Mr. Smith 
sauntering along, apparently out for 
an airing. 

‘‘ Good afternoon, madame ! 

He would have passed wnth the 
words, but she stopped to talk with 
him. The truth was, Miss ]Bake had 
taken, she knew not why or wherefore, 
a liking for Mr. Smith. From the 
first moment she saw him be had pos- 
sessed a kind of attraction for her. 
It must be said that she believed him 
to be a gentleman. 

You were not at the opening ser- 
vice at St Jerome’s this afternoon, Mr. 
Smith she said, half reproachfully. 

“ Well, to tell you the truth, I 
thought I should be out of place there, 
as the congregation w^as comprised only 
of ladies,” was his reply. Happening 
to be walking that way, I saw lots of 
them go in.” 

Foxwood cannot boast of gentle- 
men in the middle of the day ; they 
are off to Basham for their different 
occupations. But you are an idle man, 
Mr. Smith.” 

I am not always idle, T assure you, 
Miss Blake. I have Sir Karl Andin- 
nian’s interests to look to.” 

Oh, indeed ! As a friend, I pre- 
sume ? ” 

Just so.” 

Well, you would not have been 
quite solitary if you had come in. 
Mr. Moore w^as there.” 

Ay. He looked in for five min- 
utes, and came out laughing. I don’t 
know^ what amused him, unless it was 
to see the Misses Sumnor there.” 

‘•I think you must have been watch- 
ing us all — all w'ho went in, and all 
who came out,” said Miss Blake. The 
agent smiled as he disclaimed the im- 
putation : and with that they parted. 

“ Those flowers w^ere so much admir- 
ed and appreciated, jMaclean,” said 
Miss Blake to the gardener as she 
passed the lodge — where he sat at tea 
with his wife — the door open. “ There 
are no snch hot-house flowers any wdiere 
as yours.” 

Maclean, a short man with a fresh 


'Color, rose and thanked her for the com- 
pliment. She passed rapidly on, and 
entered the house by the window of the 
north room. 

I wonder where Lucy is ? — Dress- 
ing, perhaps ; or seated at the window 
looking out for her husband. Foolish 
child ! Does he deserve that love? ” 

Treading softly on the carpeted stair- 
case, her knock at Lady Andinnian’s 
door and her entrance were simultane- 
ous. Lucy, in her white morning dress 
with its blue ribbons, was standing up 
beside her husband. His arm was 
round her waist, her face lay upon his 
breast, his own bent down upon it. 

It was an awkward moment for Miss 
Blake ; she bit her lips .as she stam- 
mered an apology. Lucy, blushing 
and laughing, drew away. Karl stood 
his ground, laughing too. 

I did not know you had returned, 
Sir Karl.” 

I have just come: three minutes 
ago,” he said, holding out his hand. 
“Lucy was telling me you had gone to 
a kettle-drum, and I saucily assured 
her she must have dreamt it. Fancy 
kettle-drums at Foxwood ! ” 

They separated for the purpose of 
dressing, Miss Blake biting her lips 
still as she went to her room. The lit- 
tle matter had turned her blood hot 
and cold. Do as she would, she could 
not get rid entirely of her love for 
Karl Andinnian, in spite of the chron- 
ic resentment she indulged towards 
him. 

“ If this is jealousy,” she murmur- 
ed, sitting down to think, and undoing 
her veil with fingers that thrilled to 
their extreme ends, I must indeed 
school myself. I thought that I had 
learned to bear calmly.” 

At dinner Sir Karl seemed in better 
spirits than usual. He told them he 
had been to the Opera to hear the new 
singer, lima de Murska, in “Bobert 
le Diable.” 

“ Oh, Karl ! — and not to have had 
me with you ! ” cried Luc3^ 

will take you up on purpose, 
Lucy. You must hear her. In the song 
‘Bobert, toi que j’aime’ sbe electrified 
us all. I never heard anything like it 


100 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


in iny life. And she is most eleg^int 
on the stas:e.= Her dresses are splen- 
did.’’ 

“Was any one there timt you knew?” 

“ I hardly looked at the house at all. 

I was in the stalls. The Prince and 
Princess of Wales were in the royal 
box.” 

“ I am sure, Karl, it is a wonder to 
hear that you went !” 

“True, Lucy; but my evenings 
bung heavily on my bands. What 
with Plunkett and Plunkett and other 
business matters, the days were busy 
enough : I used to wish the evenings 
were. I felt ver}^ dull.” 

“ Just as I liave been feeling here, 
Karl, without you.” 

His answer to his wife was but a 
look ; but Miss Blake wished she had 
not caught it. • What had she done, 
that his love should have missed her to 
be lavished on this girl-child ? 

“ Sir Karl,” she cried, somewhat 
abruptly, “who is Mr. Smith ? ” 

“1 don’t know,” carelessly replied 
Sir Karl, whose tlioughts were preoc- 
cupied. 

“ Not know ! But is he not your 
agent ? and a friend also? ” 

Sir Karl was fully aroused now. 
“ Know who Mr. Smith is ? ” he re- 
peated — and he wished to heaven in 
bis secret heart that be did know. 
“ How do you mean. Miss Blake ? He 
is Mr. Smith, and — yes — a -kind of 
agent to me on the estate.” 

The latter part of the answer was 
given lightly, half merrily, as if he 
would pass it off with a laugh. Miss 
Blake resumed. 

“ Is lie not an old friend of the An- 
dinnian family ? ” 

“ Of some of them, I believe. I did 
not know him myself.” 

“ AVho gave him his appointment ? ” 

• “ ^ly mother. She considered it well 

to have some responsible person here 
to look after my interests, as I was liv- 
ing abroad.” 

“ Do 3'ou not intend. Sir Karl, to 
make an acquaintance of him? — a. 
friend ? ” 

For a moment Sir Karl’s brows were 
heavily knitted. “ I do not suppose I 
shall,” lie quietly said. ' 


“ He seems a well-informed, agreea- 
ble man ; and is, I conclude, a gentle- 
man,” returned IMiss Blake, quite in a 
tone of remonstrance. 

“ I am glad to hear it,” replied Sir 
Karl, his manner somewhat freezing. 

“ And so, Luc3^ 3’ou have had some of 
the neighbors calling here?” he con- 
tinued, addressing his wife and turning 
the conversation. 

“ Oh, Karl, yes ! And you were not 
here to help me; and I did not know 
them, and confused their names hope- 
lessly one with another.” 

“ I should not have known them 
either.” laughed Sir Karl. 

jMiss Blake had some letters to write, 
and got to them after dinner : she had 
been too much engaged with other 
tilings during the day. Tea was taken 
in earl}" to the drawing-room, and after- 
wards she went back to her own room 
to finish her writing by what little 
light remained.. She saw Sir Karl and 
Lucy in the garden arm-in-arm, con- 
versing together in low confidential 
tones. Evidently they were all suffi- 
cient for each other and did not miss 
her. 

Say what we will, it could but seem 
to Miss Blake a neglect and something 
worse, looking upon past matters in 
her own light ; and it told upon her 
cruel 1}". 

The eve’ning dusk drew on. She 
heard Lucy at the piano in the draw- 
ing room, seemingly alone, trying a 
bit of one song and a bit of another. 
There was no doubt tliat slie thought 
Theresa was still busy and would not 
interrupt her. Miss Blake put up her 
desk and sat at the open window. By 
and by, when it was nearly dark, she 
threw a shawl on her shoulders, step- 
ped out, crossed the lawn, and lost her- 
self amidst the opposite trees. IMiss 
Blake was that night in no mood for 
companionship : she preferred lier own 
company to that of Lucy or lier hus- 
band. As we say by the cross little 
clnldren, the black dog was on her 
back; she did not listen even to the 
sweet melody of the nightingales. 

“ But for St. Jerome’s I would not 
stay another day liere,” her thoughts 
ran. “ I almost wish now I had not 


MISS BLAKE ON THE WATCH. 


101 


stirred in the church matter, but let 
the benighted place alone. As it is — 
and Mr. CattacomVs come — why, I 
must make the best of it, and do my 
duty. Stay ! Stay, Theresa Blake ! ” 
she broke off in self-soliloquizing stern- 
ness. Is this fulfilling your good 
resolution — to give up all, and bear 
all ? Let me put away such evil 
thoughts and work bravely on, and 
stay here cheerfully for Lucy’s sake. 
It may be that she will want a friend, 
and I — Oh, there he is!” 

The last sentence related to Sir 
Karl. She had gradually got round 
the house to the other side, *which 
brought her in face of Sir Karl’s 
room. The doors of the window stood 
wide open ; a lamp was on the table, 
by whose light he seemed to be read- 
ing a note and talking to Hewitt, who 
stood near. Crossing over on the soft 
grass she drew within ear-shot, not 
really with any intention of listening, 
but in her mind’s abstraction — what 
was there likely to pass between Sir 
Karl and his servant that concerned 
her to hear? With the bright lamp 
inside and the darkness out, they could 
not see her. 

You must be very cautious, Hew- 
itt,” Sir Karl was saying. “Implicit- 
ly silent.” 

“ I have been, sir, and shall be,” 
was the answer. “ There’s no fear of 
w.e. I have not had the interests of 
the family at heart all these years, Sir 
Karl, to compromise them now.” 

“I know, I know, Hewitt Well, 
that’s all, I think, for to-night.” 

Miss Blake passed back again out 
of hearing, very slowly and thought- 
fully. She had heard the words, and 
was dissecting them : it almost sound- 
ed as though Sir Karl and his man 
had some secret together. Stepping 
on to the terrace, she was about to go 
in, when she heard Sir Karl enter the 
drawing-room and speak to his wife. 

“I think I shall take a bit of a 
stroll, Lucy.” 

“To smoke youv cigar ? Do so, 
Karl.” 

“ I — wonder — whether it is an ex- 
cuse to go where he went the other 


night ? ” thought Miss Blake, the 
idea striking her like a flash of light- 
ning. “ I’ll watch him. I will. I 
said I would, and I will. His family 
may have interests of their own, but 
Lucy and her family have theirs, and 
for her sake I’ll watch.” 

Drawing the shawl over her head, 
she passed out at one of the small 
gates, crossed the road, and glided 
along under cover of the opposite 
hedge as far as the Maze. There she 
stood back, amidst the trees, and shel- 
tered from observation. The dress sl>e 
wore happened to be black, the shawl 
was black, and she could not be seen 
in the shade. 

It was a still night. The dew was 
rising, and there seemed to be some 
damp exhaled from the trees. The 
time passed, ever so many minutes, 
and she began to think she had come 
on a fruitless errand. Or was it that 
Sir Karl was only lingering with his 
wife ? 

“ Good gracious ! What was that ? ” 

A shrill shriek right over Miss 
Blake’s head had caused the words 
and the start. It must have been 
only a night-bird ; but her nerves — 
what few she had — were on the ten- 
sion, and she began to tremble slight- 
\y. was not a pleasant position, 
and she wished herself away. 

“I’ll go,” she mentally cried. “I 
wish I had not come. I — hope — ^Ir. 
Smith’s — not looking out, or he will 
see me ! ” she added, slowly and dubi- 
ously. 

The doubt caused her to stay where 
she was and strain her eyes at the op- 
posite cottage. Was it fancy ? One 
of the windows stood open, and she 
thought she saw a head and eyes peep- 
ing from it. Peeping, not openly look- 
ing. 

“ He must have seen me come ! ” 
decided Miss Blake. “ But surely 
he’d not know me, wrapped up like 
this ! Hark I ” 

A very slight sound .had dawned 
upon her ear. Was it Sir Karl ad- 
vancing? Surely the sound was that 
of footsteps ! At the same moment, 
there arose another and separate 


102 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


soiund ; and that was close to her, in- 
side tlie gates wliich slie stood. 

“Some one must be coming out!” 
breathed JMiss Blake. It’s getting 
complicated. I wish I was safe away. 
Two pairs of eyes ma}^ see what one 
would not.” 

Sir Karl Andinnian — for the foot- 
steps were bis — advanced. Very 
quietl}^ and cautiously. ^Miss Blake 
could see tliat he had changed his din- 
ner coat for another, wliich lie had got 
buttoned closely round him, though 
tlie night was close. Halting at the 
gate he drew the key from his pocket 
as before, unlocked it, and passed in. 
Some one met him. 

Karl I I am so glad you have 
come! I thought you would ! I knew 
you had returned.” 

It was a soft, sweet voice : the same 
voice, Miss Blake could have laid a 
wager on it, that had sung “When 
lovely woman stoops to folly.” Their 
hands met: she was sure of that. 
Perhaps their lips also : but she could 
not see. 

“ AVhy, how did you know I was 
back ? ” he asked. 

“ Oh, Ann came to the gate to an- 
swer a ring, and saw you pass from 
the station.” ^ 

“ Why are you out here?” he re- 
sumed. “ Is it prudent? ” 

“ I was restless, expecting you. I 
have so much to say ; and, do you 
know, Karl ■” 

The voice sank into too low a tone 
to be audible to the thirsty ears out- 
side. Both had spoken but in whis- 
pers. Miss Blake cautiously stretched 
forth her head, so as to get a glinlpse 
through the closely-barre(l gate. Yes: 
it was the lovely girl she had seen dur- 
ing that stealthy visit of hers : and 
she had taken Sir Karl's arm wdiile 
she talked to him. Another minute, 
and they both disappeared within the 
trees of tlie maze. 

Whether Miss Blake was glued to 
the trunk of the tree she stood at, or 
whether it was glued to her, remains a 
problem to be solved. It was one of 
the two. There she stood ; and, leave 
it she could not. That the flood-gates 
of a full tide of iniquity had suddenly 


been opened upon her was as clear to 
her mind as the light of day. iMuch 
that had been incomprehensible in the 
Maze and its inmates admitted of no 
doubt now. An instinct of this had 
been playing in her fancy previously: 
but she had drivmn it away as fancy, 
and would not allow herself to dwell 
on it. And now — it seemed as thoui^h 
she stood at the edge of a yawning; 
precipice looking down on a gulf of 
almost unnatural evil, from the midst 
of which Sir Karl Andinnian shone 
prominently out, the incarnation of all 
that was wicked and false and treach- 
erous. But for the necessity of still- 
ness and silence. Miss Blake could 
have groaned aloud. 

A few minutes, and she stole away. 
There was nothing to wait or watch 
for : she knew all. Forgetting about 
Clematis Cottage and the eyes that 
might be peeping from it, she got back 
into the grounds of Foxwood and sat 
down on the bare terrace in the night, 
to commune with herself. What should 
her course be ? Surelj’ she ought to 
impart the secret to that poor girl, 
Lucy, whom the man had dared to 
make his wife. 

Let us render justice to Miss Blake. 
Hard though she was b}^ nature, she 
strove to do her duty in all conscien- 
tiousness at all times and in all places. 
Sin she detested, no matter of what 
nature ; detested it both as sin and for 
its offence against God. That Sir 
Karl Andinnian was living in secret, if 
not open sin, and was cruelly deceiving 
his innocent and unsuspicious wife, was 
clearly indisputable. It must not be 
allowed to go on — at least so far as 
Lucy was concerned. To allow her to 
remain the loving and unsuspicious 
partner of this .man would* be almost 
like making her a third in the wicked- 
ness, was what Miss Blake thought in 
her anger. And she decided on her 
course. 

“ And I — if I did not enlighten her, 
knowing what I know — s’.iould be 
countenancing and adminsteriiig to the 
sin,” she said aloud. “Good heavens! 
what a pit seems to be aiouiid us ! May 
1 be helped to do right ! ” 

Ilising and shaking the night-dew 


REVEALED TO LADY AXDIXXrAN. 


103 


from her hair, she pn^spd upstairs to 
lier own cliarnber. Lady Andinniaii 
was moving about her dressing-room. 
Impulse induced JMiss Llake to knock 
at the door. ISTot tliat she intended to 
speak then. 

“ Are you undressing, Lucy ? ’’ she 
asked, an unconscious pity in her voice 
for, the poor young wife. 

‘•Not yet, Theresa. Aglae’s com- 
ing up, tliougli, I think. It was dull 
down stairs by myself, and I thought 1 
might as well come on. I could not 
find jmu anywhere. I thought you 
must have gone to bed.’’ 

‘‘ I was out of doors.” 

“Were you ! I called to you out- 
side on the^ terrace, but no one an- 
swered.” 

“ Sir Karl is out, tlien ? ” 

“He is strolling about somewliere,” 
replied Lu(;y. “He does not sleep 
well, and likes to take half an hour’s 
stroll the last thing. It strikes me 
sometimes that Karl’s not strong, 
Theresa: but I try to throw tlie fear 
off.” 

Miss Blake drew in her lips, biting 
them to an enforced silence. She was 
burning to say what she could say, but 
knew it would be premature. 

“I will wish you good-night, Lucy, 
my dear. I am tired, and — ancf out of 
sorts.” 

“ Good night, Theresa : dormez 
bien,” 'was the gay answer. 

“ To waste her love and solicitude 
upon him, ! thought Miss Blake, as 
she step})ed along the corridor with 
erect head and haughty brow. “ I told 
Colonel Cleeve before the marriage that 
he was wild — little Dennet had said so 
— but I was put down. Ko wonder 
Sir Karl cannot spend his income on 
his home! he has other ways and 
means for it. Oh, how true are the 
words of holy writ I ^ Tjie heart of 
m^m is deceitful above all things and 
desperately wicked.’ ” 




CHAPTER XV. 

REVEALED TO LADY AXDIXXTAN. 

TiiE-morning sun had chased away 
the dew on the grass, but the hedge- 
rows wore giving out their fragrance, 
and the lark and blackbird sang in the 
trees, as Miss l^lake was returning 
from early service at St. Jerome’s: or, 
as St. Jerome’s people called it. Matins. 

In spite of the nearly sleepless night 
she had passed. Miss Blake looked well. 
Her superabundance of hair, freshly 
washed up with its cunning cosmetics 
and adorned to perfection, gleamed as 
if so many golden particles of dust 
were shining on it; her morning robe 
was of light muslin, and becoming 
as fashion could make it. It was very 
unusual for Miss J^lake to get little 
sleep : she was of too equable a tem- 
perament to lie awake : but the pre- 
vious night’s revelation had disturbed 
her in no common degree, and her head 
had ached when she rose. The head- 
ache was passing now, and she felt 
quite ready for breakfast. A task lav 
before her that day : the disclosure to 
Lady Andinnian. It was all cut and 
dried: how she should make it: even 
the very words of it were already 
framed. 

She would not so much as turn her 
eyes on the gate of the Maze : had she 
been on that side of the road she would 
have caught up her flounces as she 
j)assed it. Never, willingly, would she 
soil lier shoes with that side of the way 
again — the place had a brand on it. 
It was quite refreshing to turn her eyes 
on Clematis Cottage, sheltering the 
respectable single bachelor who lived 
there. 

She turned them on the bachelor as 
well. ]\tr. Smith, in a light morning 
coat, and his arm as usual in a black 
sling, was out of doors amidst the rose 
trees on the little lawn, gazing at one 
of them through his green spectacles. 
Miss Blake sto[)ped as he saluted her, 
and good mornings were exchanged. 

“ 1 am no judge of dowers,” he said, 
“ have not lived among them enough 
ibr that ; but it a[)pears to me that this 


104 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


r )C!o. ^n?t come out, is a very rare and 
1'cnutif‘nl specimen.” 

OUeyinf? 'the evident wish — j^iven in 
nuinner alone, not in words — that slie 
s'rnuld go in and look at the roi^C; jMiss 
]>hike entered. It was a tea-rose of 
t‘X(]uisite tint and sweetness. jMiss 
Hlake was warm in h.er admiration; 
she had not noticed any exactly like it 
at the Court. Before she could stop 
the sacrilege IMr. Smith liad opened 
liis penknife, cut off the rose, and was 
presenting it to her. 

‘‘ Oh, how could you !” she exclaimed. 

It was so beautiful here, in your 
garden.” 

Madam, it will be more beautiful 
there,” he rejoined, as she began to put 
k in her waistband. 

I should be very sorry but tliat I 
see other buds will soon be out.” 

Yes, to-morrow : Earth does not 
deal out her flowers to us with a nig- 
gardly hand.” 

Accompanying the resolution Miss 
Blake had come to the previous eve- 
ning and perfected in the night — in 
lier eyes a very righteous and proper 
resolution, namely, to disclose what she 
knew to Lady Andinnian — accompa- 
iiying this, I sa}", was an undercurrent 
of determination to discover as many 
^ jKj^iculars of the ill-savored matter as 
V'lUcould possibly discover. Standing 
at this moment on j\Ir. Smith’s grass 
]>lat, that gentleman beside her and 
the gates of the Maze in full view 
opposite, an idea struck Miss Blake 
that perhaps Im knew something. 

She began to question him. Lightly 
and apparently carelessly, inters[)ersed 
with observations about the flowers, 
she turned the conversation on the 
]\Iaze, asking this, and remarking that. 

“ Lonely it must be for Mrs. Grey ? 
Oh yes. How long has she lived there, 
Mr. ’Smith?” 

She came — let me see. Shortly, 
I think, before Mrs. Andinnian’s death. 

‘•Ah, yes. At the time Sir Karl 
was staying here.” 

Was Sir Karl staying here ? By 
tlie wa}^, yes, I think he was.” 

]Miss Blake, toying with a spray of 
the liu-irishing clematis, happened to 


look suddenly at ^Ir. Smith as he gave 
the answer, and saw his glance turned 
covertly on her through his green 
glasses. “ He knows all about it,” she 
thouglit, “and is screening Sir Karl. 
That last answer, the pretended non- 
remembrance, was an evasion.” Just 
for a moment there was a silence. 

“ ]Mr. Smith, you may trust me, she 
then said in a low tone. “I fancy 
that you and I both know pretty well 
who it was. brought the lady here and 
wh}^ she lives in that seclusion. But I 
never could have believed it of Sir Karl 
Andinnian.” 

Mr. Smith in his surprise — and it 
looked like very genuine surprise — 
took oft' his glasses and gjzed at iMiss 
Blake without them. He had rather 
fine brown ej^es, she noticed. Not a 
Word spoke he. 

“ You wonder that I should speak 
of this, iMr. Smith — I see that.” 

“I doidt understand you, ma’am, 
and that’s the truth.” 

“Oh, well, I suppose you will not 
understand. Sir Karl ought to be 
ashamed of liimself.” 

Whether it was ’her tart tone that 
suddenly enlightened Mr. Smith, or 
whether he had but been pretending 
before, there could be no mistake but 
that he caught her meaning now. He 
[)ut on his green spectacles with a con- 
scious laugh. 

Hush,” said he, making believe 
playfully to hide his face. “ ^Ve are 
content, you know, Miss Blake, to ig- 
nore these things.” 

“ Yes, I do know- it, dear sir: it is 
the way of the world, l^ut thej" can- 
not be ignored in the sight of heaven.” 

The striking of nine o’clock inside 
the house reminded ^liss Blake that 
the morning was getting on, and that 
she had best make haste .f she wanted 
an}' breakfast. Mr. Smith held the 
gate open for her, and shook her oft'er- 
ed hand. She stepped onwards, feeling 
that a mutual, if silent, understanding 
had been established betvreen them — 
that they shared the disgraceful secret. 

Had jMiss Blake wanted confirma- 
tion in her belief, this would have es- 
tablished it. But she did not. She 


REVEALED TO LADY AXDINNIAN. 


105 


was as sure of the fact as though an 
angel had revealed it. The sight of 
her own good eyes, the hearing of her 
true ears, and the exercise of her keen 
common sense had established it too 
surely. 

My task lies all plain before me/’ 
she murmured. “ It is a disagreeable 
one, and may prove a thankless, but I 
will not shrink from it. Wlio am I that 
should turn aside from an appointed 
duty ? That it has been appointed 
me, events show. 1 have been guided 
in this by a higher power than my 
own.’’ 

An appointed duty ! Perhaps Miss 
Blake thought she had been appoint- 
ed ” to watch the Maze gates in the 
shade of the dark night, to track the 
private steps of her unsuspicious host, 
Karl Andinnian ! There is no soph- 
istry in this world like self-sopliistry ; 
notJiing else so deceives the human 
heart. 

M^iss Blake found her opportunity in 
the course of the morning. A shade 
of pity crossed her for the happiness, 
she was about to mar, as she saw them 
out together after breakfast, amid the 
flowers. Now Lucy’s arm entwined 
fondly in his, now tripping b}^ his side, 
now calling his attention to some rare 
or sweet blossom, as Mr. Smith had 
called Miss Blake’s in the morning. In 
Lacy’s bright face, as she glanced per- 
petually at her lord and husband, there 
was so much of love, so much of trust : 
and in his, Sir Karl’s, there was a 
whole depth of apparent tenderness 
for her. 

“ Men were deceivers ever,” angrily 
cried Miss Blake, recalling a line of 
the old ballad. “It’s enough to make 
one sick. But I am sorry for Lucj" ; 
it will be a dreadful blow. How I 
wish it could be inflicted on him in- 
ste'ad of her. In a measure it will fall 
on him — for of course Lucy will take 
active steps.” 

Later, when Sir Karl, as it chanced, 
had gone over to Basham, and Lucy was 
itiher pretty little dressing-room, writ- 
ing to some girl friend, Miss Blake seized 
on the o[)portunity. Shutting herself 
in with Lady Andinnian she made the 


comjmunication to her. She told it 
with as much gentle consideration as 
.possible, very delicately, and, in fact, 
rather obscurely. At first Lady An- 
dinnian did not understand, could not 
understand ; and when she was made 
to understand, her burning face flashed 
forth its indignation, and she utterly 
refused to believe. 

Miss Blake only expected this. She 
was ver}^ soothing and tender. 

“ Sit down, Lucy,” she said. “Listen. 
On my word of honor, I would n’ot 
have imparted this miserable tale to in- 
flict on jmu pain so bitter, but that I 
saw it must be done. For your sake, 
and in the interests of eveiTthing that’s 
right •'and just and seemly, 'it would not 
have done to suffer* you to remain in 
ignorance, a blind victim to the das- 
tardl}^ deceit practised on you by your 
h usband.” 

“ He could not so deceive me, The- 
resa ; he could not deceive any one,” 
she burst forth passionately. 

“ My dear, I onl\" ask you to listen. 
You can then judge for yourself. Do 
not take my word that it is, or must be, 
so. Hear the facts, and then use your 
own common sense. Alas Lucy, there 
Can be no mistake : but for knowing 
that, should I have spoken, think you ? 
It is. unfortunately, as true as heaven.” 

From the beginning to the end, 
Miss Blake told her tale. She spoke 
out without reticence now. Sitting be- 
side Lucy on the sofli, and holding her 
hands in hers with a warm and 
loving clasp, she went over it all. The 
mystery that appeared to encompass 
this young lady, living alone at the 
Maze in strict seclusion with her two 
old servants, who were man and wife, 
she spoke of first as an introduction. 
She said how curiously it had attracted 
her attention, unaccountably to herself 
at the time, but that now she knew a 
divine inspiration had guided her to the 
instinct. She avowed how she had got 
in, and that it was done purposely ; 
and that she had seen the girl, who was 
called Mrs.. Grey, and was “ beautiful as 
an angel,” and heard her sing the char- 
acteristic song (which might well in- 
deed have been written of her') “ When 


100 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


lovely woman stoops to folly/’ Xext, 
she described Sir Karl's secret visits ; 
the key he let himself in witli, taken 
from his pocket ; the familiar and af- 
lectionate words interchanged between 
him and the girl, who had come to the 
gate to wait for him. She told Lucy 
tliat she had afterwards had corrobora- 
tive evidence from IMr. Smith, the 
agent : he appeared to know all about 
it, to take it as a common matter of 
course, and to be content to ignore it 
after the custom of the world. She 
said that Sir Karl had brought Mrs. 
Gre\^ to the Maze during the time he 
was stajnng at Foxwood in attendance 
on his sick mother: and slve asked 
Lucy to recall the fact of his prolong- 
ed sojourn here, of his unwillingness 
to leave it and rejoin her, his wife ; and 
of the very evident desire he had to 
keep her altogether from Foxwood. In 
short, as Miss Blake put the matter — 
and every s^dlable she spoke did she be- 
lieve to be strictly true and unexagge- 
rated — it was simply impossible for 
the most unwilling listener not to be 
convinced. 

Lad^^ Andinnian was satisfied ; and 
it was as her death blow. Truth itself 
could not have appeared more plain 
and certain. After the first outburst 
of indignation, she had sat very calm 
and quiet, listening silently. Trifles 
excite the best of us, but in a great ca- 
lamity lieart and self alike shrink into 
stillnessj^ Save that she had turned 
pale as death, there was no sign. 

Luc 3% 1113^ poor Lucy, forgive me ! 
I would have spared 3^11 if I could ; 
but I believe the task of telling 3^0 
was laid on me.” 

Thank 3^011, yes ; I suppose it was 
right to tell me, Theresa,” came the 
mechanical answer from the quivering 
lips. 

“ JMy dear, what will be 3mur course ? 
You cannot remain here his wife.” 

“ Would 3mu please let me be alone, 
now, Theresa ? 1 do not seem to be 

able to think yet collectedl3\” 

The door closed on Miss Blake, and 
Ladv Andinnian bolted it after her. 
She bolted the other two doors, so as to 
make sure of being alone. The aban- 


donment began then. Kneeling on 
the carpet, her head buried on the sofa 
pillow, she lay realizing the full sense 
of the awful shock. It shook her to 
the centre. Oh, how dreadful it was ! 
She had so loved Karl, so believed in 
him : she had believed that man ravel v 
loved a maiden and then a wife as Karl 
had loved her. This, then, must have 
been the secret trouble that was upon 
him ! — which had all l)ut induced him 
to break ofl' his marriage ! she reason- 
ed, and supposed she reasoned correct- 
ly. All parts of the supposition, had 
she thought them well out, might not 
perhaps have fitted-in to one another : 
but in a distress such as this, no wo- 
man — no, nor man either — is capable of 
working out problems logical 13’. She 
assumed that it must have been going 
on for 3^ears : in all probabilit3^ long be- 
fore he knew her. 

An hour or so of this painful indul- 
gence, and then Lad3" Andinnian rose 
from the floor and sat down to think, 
as well as she could think, what 'her 
course should be. She was truly re- 
ligious, though perhaps she knew it 
not. Theresa Blake was ostensibly so, 
and ver3^ much so in her own belief: 
hut the difference was wide. The one 
had the real gold, the other but the 
base coin washed over. She, Lucv, 
strove to think and to see what would 
be right and best to do ; for herself, for 
her misguided husband, and in the 
sight of God. 

Slie sat and thought it out, perhaps 
for another hour, Aglae came to the 
door to say luncheon was served, but 
Lad3^ Andinnian said Miss Blake was 
to be told tltat she had a headache ami 
should not take an3\ To make a scan- 
dal and leave her husband’s home — as 
Theresa seemed to have hinted — would 
have gone well nigh to kill her witii 
the shame and anguish it would entail. 
And oh, she hoped, she trusted, that 
her good father and mother, who had 
3delded to her love for Karl and so 
sanctioned the marriage, might never, 
never know of this. She lifted her 
imploring 03^03 and hands to heaven in 
pra3^er that it might be kept from 
them.. She prayed that she might be 

I 


KEVEALED TO LADY ANDINNIAN. 


107 


enabled to do what was right, and to 
hear: to bear silently and patiently, 
no living being, save Sir Karl, know- 
ing what she had to endure. 

For, while she was praying for the 
way to be made clear before her, and 
for strength to walk in it, however 
thorny it might be, an idea had dawn- 
ed upon her that this matter might 
possibly be kept from the world, held 
sacred between herself and Sir Karl. 
Could she ? could she continue to live 
on at the Court, bearing in patient si- 
lence — nay, in impatient — the cruel 
torment, the sense of insult ? And 
yet, if she did not remain, how would 
it be possible to conceal it all from her 
father and mother? The very inde- 
cision seemed well nigh to kill her. 

Visitors drove up to the house in the 
course of the afternoon — the county 
families were beginning to call — and 
Lady Andinnian had to go down. 
Miss Blake was off to one of St. Je- 
rome’s services — of which the Kever- 
end Guy Cattacomb was establishing 
several daily. Sir Karl came home 
while the visitors were there. After 
their departure, when he came to look 
round for his wife, he was told she had 
hastily thrown on bonnet and mantle 
and gone out. Sir Karl rather won- 
dered. 

Kot onljT- to avoid her husband, but 
also because she wanted to see Marga- 
ret Sumnor, and perhaps gain' from 
her a crumb of comfort in her utter 
wretchedness, had Lad}" Andinnian 
run forth to gain the vicarage. Mar- 
garet was l3"ing as before, on her hard 
couch, or board ; doing, for a wonder, 
nothing. Her hands were elapsed 
meekly before her on her white wrap- 
per, her eyelids seemed heavy with 
crying. But the eyes smiled a cheer- 
ful greeting to Lady Andinnian. 

Is anything the matter, Mar- 
garet ? ” 

It was but the old story, the old 
grievance ; Margaret Su^nnor was 
pained by it, more or less, nearly every 
cla}^ of her life — the home treatment 
of her father : the contempt shown to 
liim by his second family; ay, and by 
his wife. 


It Is a thing I cannot talk of 
much, Lucy. I should not speak of it 
at all, but that it is well known to 
Foxwood, and talked of openly. Car- 
oline and Martha set papa at naught 
in all ways : the insolence of their an- 
swers to h'im, both in words and man- 
ner, brings the blush of pain and 
shame to his face. This time the 
trouble was about that new place of 
Miss Blake's, St. Jerome’s. Papa for- 
bid them to frequent it ; but it was 
just as though he had spoken to a 
stone — in fact, worse ; for they retort- 
ed and set him at defiance. They 
wanted daily service, they said, and 
should go where it was held. So now 
papa, I believe, thinks of resuming his 
daily services here, at Trinity, hoping 
it may counteract the other. There, 
that’s enough of home and my red 
eyes, Luc3\ You don’t look well.” 

Lady Andinnian drew her chair 
quite close to the invalid, so that she 
might let her hand rest in the one held 
out for her. “ I have a trouble too, 
Margaret,” she whispered. ^^A 
dreadful, sudden trouble, a blow ; and 
I think it has nearly broken my heart. 
I cannot tell you what it is ; I cannot 

tell any one in the world ” 

Except 3mur husband,” interposed 
Miss Sumnor. ‘^Kever have any 
concealments from him, Luc}".” 

Lad}" Andinnian’s face turned red 
and white with embarrassment. 

Yes, him ; I shall have to speak to 
I him,” she said, in some hesitation : 
and Miss Sumnor’s deep insight into 
others’ hearts enabled her to guess 
that the trouble had something to do 
with Sir Karl. She suspected it was 
that painful thing to a }"oung wife — a 
first quarrel. 

I am not like you, IMargaret — 
ever patient, ever good,” faltered poor 
Lady Andinnian. I seem to be 
nearly torn apart with conflicting 
thoughts — perhaps I ought to sa}" pas- 
sions — and I thought I would come to 
you for a word of advice and comfort. 
There are two wa3"s in which I can act 
in this dreadful matter; and indeed 
that word is no exaggeration, for it is 
j very dreadful. The one would be to 




103 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


make a stir in it, take a liigh tol^, and 
set forth my wrongs ; that would be 
revenge, and I hardly know whether 
it would be right, or bring right. 
The other would be to put up with the 
evil ill silence, and hear^ and leave the 
future to God. Which must I do ? ” 

^Margaret Sumnor turned as much 
as she could turn without assistance, 
and laid both her hands imploringly 
on Lady Andinnian’s. 

“ Lucy ! Lucy ! choose the latter. 
I have seen, oh, so much of this re- 
venge, and of how it has worked. 
]My dear, I believe in my honest heart 
tliat this revenge was never yet taken 
but it was repented of in tlie end. 
However grave the justifying cause 
and cruel tlie provocation, the time 
would come when it was heartily and 
bitterly regretted, when its actor would 
say, Oh that I had not done as I did, 
that I had chosen the more merciful 
part! ‘Vengeance is mine; I will re- 
pay ; ^ you know who saj’s that, Lucy : 
but you cannot know what I have seen 
and marked so often — that when that 
vengeance is taken into human hands, 
it somehow defeats itself. It may in- 
flict confusion and ruin on the adver- 
sar}^ ; but it never fails to tell in some 
waj" on the inflictor. It ma}" be only 
in mental regret : regret that may not 
set in until after long years ; but rely 
upon it he never fails, in his remorse- 
ful heart, to wish the past could be 
undone. A regret such as this we 
have to carry with us to thfe grave, for 
it can never be remedied, the revenge- 
ful act cannot be blotted out. It has 
been done ; and it stands with its con- 
sequences for ever : consequences, per- 
haps, that we never could have fore- 
seen.*’ 

Lady Andinnian sat listening with 
drooping face. A softer expression 
stole over it. 

“ There is one thing we never can 
repent of, Lucy ; and that is, of choos- 
ing the path of mercy — of leniency. 
It brings a balm with it to the sorely 
chafed spirit, and heals in time. Do 
you choose it, my dear. I urge it on 
you with my whole heart.” 

“I think I wiff, Margaret; I think 


I will,” she answered, raising for a mo- 
ment her wet eyes. “ It will mortily 
my pride and 1113^ self-esteem ; be al- 
waj^s mortifying them, and I shall need 
a great deal of patience to beaiv’ 

“But you will be able to bear; to 
bear all ; you know where to go for 
help. Do this, Lucy; and see if in 
the future you do not find your reward. 
In after years, it may be that your 
heart will go up with a great bound of 
joy and thankfulness. ‘I did as 
Margaret told me,’ 3"ou will say, ‘ and 
bore.’ Oh, if men and women did but 
know the future that they lay up for 
themselves according as their acts shall 
be ! — the remorse or the peace.” 

Lucy rose and kissed her. “ It 
shall be so, Margaret,” she whispered. 
And she went away without another 
word. 

She strove to keep the best side 
uppermost in her mind as she went 
home. Her resolution was taken ; and, 
perhaps because it was taken, the 
temptation to act otherwise and to* 
choose revenge, rose up in all manner 
of attractive colors. She could aban- 
don her ill-doing husband ‘and start 
even that night, for her parents’ home ; 
reveal the whole and claim their pro- 
tection against him. This would be to 
uphold her pride and her womanly self- 
respect : but oh, how it would pain 
them I And they had given their con- 
sent to the marriage against their 
better judgment; so to sa\q against 
their own will. No; she could not, 
for ver}^ shame, tell them, and she 
prayed again that they might never 
know it. 

“ I can take all the pain upon my- 
self and bear it without sign for their 
sakes,” she mentallj" cried. “ Oh yes, 
and for mine, for the exposure would 
kill me. I can bear this ; I must take 
it up as my daily and niglitl}’ cross; 
but I could not bear that my own dear 
father and mother, or the dear friends 
of m}^ girlhood, should know he is 
faithless to me — that he never could 
have loved me. Theresa, the only one, 
will be silent for my sake.” 

She had believed Karl Andinnian to 
be one of the few good men of the 


KEYEALED TO L 

earth ; she had made him lieridol ; all 
liad seen it. To let them know that 
the idol had fallen from his pedestal, 
and so fallen, would reflect its slight- 
ing disgrace on her, and be more than 
human nature could encounter. 

Her interview with Sir Karl took 
place that evening. She had managed, 
save at dinner, to avoid his presence 
until then. It was held in her dress- 
ing-room at the dusk hour. He came 
up to know why she stayed there alone 
and what she was doing. In truth, 
she had been schooling herself for this 
very interview, which had to be got 
over before she went to rest. The un- 
certainty of what she could say vvas 
troubling her, ev^n the very words she 
should use caused her perplexity. In 
her innate purity, her sensitively- 
refined nature, she could not bring her- 
self to speak openly to her husband 
upon topics of this unpleasant kind. 
That rendered the explanation more 
incomplete and complicated than it 
would otherwise have been. He had 
come up, and she nerved herself to 
the task. As good enter on it now 
as an hour later. 

I — I want to speak to you. Sir 
Karl.’’ 

He was standing by the open win- 
dow, and turned his head quickly. 
Sir K^rl ! ‘‘ What’s amiss, Lucy?” 

he asked. 

I — I— I know all about your se- 
cret at the Maze,” she said with a 
great burst of emotion, her chest heav- 
ing, her -breath coming in gasps. 

Sir Karl started as‘ though he liad 
been shot. His very lips turned of an 
ashy whiteness. 

Lucy ! You cannot know it ! ” 

Heaven knows I do,” she answer- 
ed. ^’I have learnt it all this day. Oh, 
how could you so deceive me ? ” 

Sir Karl’s first act was to dart to the 
door that opened on the corridor and 
bolt it. He tiien opened the two doors 
leading to the chambers on either side, 
looked to see that no one was in either 
of them, shut the doors again, and bolt- 
ed them. 

Sir Karl, this has nearly killed me.” 

‘^Hush!” he breathed. ‘‘Don’t 


ADY AXDINNIAN. 109 

talk of it aloud, for the love of 
God ! ^ 

“Why did you marry me?” she 
asked. 

‘‘ Why, indeed,” he retorted, his 
voice one of sad pain. “ I have re- 
proached myself enough for it since, 
Lucy.” 

She was silent. The answer anger- 
ed her; and she had need of all her 
best strength, the strength she had so 
praj’ed for, to keep her lips from a cruel 
answer. She sat in her low dressing- 
chair, gazing at him with reproachful 
eyes. 

He said no more just then. Well- 
nigh overwhelmed with the blow, he 
stood back against the window-frame, 
his arms folded, his face one of pitiful 
anguish. Lucy, his wife, had got hold 
of the dreadful secret that was destroy- 
jng his own peace, that he had been 
so cunningly planning to conceal. 

“ How did you learn it ? ” he asked. 

“ I shall never tell 3mu,” she an- 
swered with quiet firmness, resolved 
not to make mischief b}^ betraying 
Theresa. I know it, and that is 
enough. Put it down, if you choose, 
that it was revealed to me by accident 
— or that I guessed it.” 

“ But, Lucy, it is necessary I should 
know.” 

“I have spoken, Sir Karl. I will 
never tell you.’’ 

The evening breeze came wafting 
into that room of pain ; cooling, it 
might be, their fevered brows, though 
the^" were not conscious of it. Lady 
Andinnian resumed. 

“ The unpardonable deceit you prac- 
tised on mj’^ father and mother ” 

Sir Karl’s start of something like 
horror interrupted her. “ Thej^ must 
never know it, Luc3^ In mercy to us 
all, you must join with me in conceal- 
ing it from them.” 

“ It was very wicked in you to have 
concealed it from them at all. At least, 
to have married me ivith such a secret 
— for I conclude 3X)u could not have 
really dared to tell them. They de- 
served better at your hands. I was 
their only daughter; all they had to 
love.” ^ 


110 


W 1 T II I N THE MAZE. 


Yes, it wns wrong. I liave re- 
proached m3"self since worse than \’on 
can reproacli me. But 1 did not know 
the worst then.’^ 

Slie turned from liim proudly. I 
— 1 wanted to tell yon, Sir Karl, that 
I for one will never forgive or forget 
vour falsehood and deceit ; and, what 1 
am about to sav, I say for m}’’ father 
and mother’s sake. 1 will keep it from 
them, always if I can ; I will bury it 
within 111}" own breast, and remain on 
here in 3mur home, your ostensible 
wife. I had thought of leaving jmur 
house for theirs, never to return ; but 
the exposure it would bring frightened 
me ; and, in truth, 1 shrink from the 
scandal.” 

‘‘ What do you mean ? ” lie exclaim- 
ed. My ‘ ostensible ’ wife ? ” 

‘‘ I shall never be ^mur wife again in 
reality-. That can be ^mur room ” — 
pointing to the one they liad jointl\^ 
occupied; ‘‘this one is mine,” indicat- 
ing the cliamber on the other hand. 
“ Aglae has already taken my things 
into it.” 

Sir Karl stood gazing at her, lost in 
surprise. 

“Ko one but ourselves need know of 
this,” she resumed, her e^ms dropping 
before the tender, pitiful gaze of his. 
“ The arrangements are looked upon by 
Aglae as a mere matter of convenience 
in the hot weather; the servants will 
understand it as such. I would spare 
us both gossip. For your sake and for 
mine I am proposing this medium 
course — to avoid the si^andal that other- 
wise must ensue. I shall have to bear, 
Karl — to bear — ” her heart nearly 
failed her in its bitter grief — “ but it 
will be better than a public separa- 
tion.” 

“ You cannot mean what you say,” 
he exclaimed. “ Live apart from me ! 
The cause cannot justify it.” 

“ It scarcely becomes you to say this. 
Havef you forgotten the sin ? ” she 
cidded in a whisper. 

“ The sin ? Well, of course it was 
sin — crime, rather. But that is of the 
past.” 

She thought she understood what he 
wished to implj^, and bit her lips to 


keep down their bitter words. He was 
surely treating her as the veriest child, 
striving to hood-wink her still ! That 
he was agitated almost be^mnd control, 
she saw : and did not wonder at. 

“ The sin is past,” he repeated. 

Ko need to recal it or talk of it.” 

‘* Be it so,” she scornfully said. 
“Its results remain. This^ I presume, 
was the great secret you spoke of the 
night before our marriage.” 

“It was. And you see now, Lucy, 
why I did not dare to speak more 
openl}^ I grant that it would haye 
been enough to prevent our marriage, 
had you. then so willed it: but, being 
my wife, it is not any sufficient cause 
for you to separate 3murself from me.” 

“ I am the best judge of that. Not 
sufficient cause ! I wonder you dare 
say it. It is an outrage on all the 
proprieties of life. You must bring — 
them — to the Maze here, close to your 
roof and mine ! ” 

In lier shrinking reticence, she 
would not mention to him the girl in 
plain words; she would not even say 
“ her,” but substituted the term 
“them,” as though sjieaking of Mrs. 
Grey and her servants collectively. 
Sir Karl’s answer was a hast}^ one. 

“That was not my doing. The 
coming to the Maze ,vvas the greatest 
mistake ever made. I was powerless 
to help it.” 

Again she believed she understood. 
That ’ when Sir Karl had wished to 
shake off certain trammels, he found 
himself not his own master in the 
matter, and could not. 

“ And so you submitted ? ” she 
scornfully said. 

“ I had no other choice, Lucy.” 

“ And you pa}’ your visits there ! ” 

“ Occasionally. I cannot do other- 
wise.” 

“ Does it never occurTo you to see 
that public exposure may come?” she 
continued in the same contemptuous 
tone. For the time, Lucy AndinniaiTs 
sweet nature seemed wholly changed. 
Every feeling she possessed had risen 
up against the bitter insult thrust upon 
her — and Sir Karl seemed to be meet- 
ing it in a coolly insulting spirit. 


REVEALED TO LADY ANDINXIAN. 


Ill 


^^The fear of exposure is killiog me, 
Liicy/^ he breathed, liis chest heaving 
with its painful emotion. ‘‘I have 
been less to blame than you imagine. 
Let me tell you the story from the be- 
ginning, and you will see that ” 

‘‘ [ will not hear a word of it,’’ burst 
forth Lucy. “It is not a thing that 
should be told to me. At any rate, I 
will not hear it.” 

“ As you please, of course ; I cannot 
force it on you. My life was thorny 
enough before : I never thought that, 
even if the matter came to your knowl- 
edge, you would take it up in this 
cruel manner and add to my pain and 
perplexity.” 

“It is for the Maze that we have to 
be economical here ! ” she rejoined, 
partly as a question, her hand laid on 
lier rebellious bosom. 

“ Yes, yes. You see, Lucy, in point 
of fact ” 

I see nothing but what I do see. 
I wish to see no further.” 

Sir Karl looked searchingly at her, 
as though he could not umlerstand. 
Could this be his ovyn loving, gentle 
Lucy? It was indeed difficult to think 
so. 

“ In a day or two when you shall 
have had time to recover from the blow, 
Lucy — and a blow I acknowledge it to 
be — you will, I hope, judge me more 
leniently. You are my wife and I 
will not give you up: there is no real 
cause for it. When you shall be calm- 
er you may feel sorry for things you 
have said now.” 

“ Sir Karl, listen ; and take your 
choice. I will stay on in your home 
on the terms 1 hf^ve mentioned, and 
they shall be perfectly understood and 
agreed to by both of us ; or I will 
leave it for the protection of my father. 
In the latt^. case I shall have to tell 
him why. for you to choose.” 

“ Have you well weighed what your 
telling would involve?” 

“Yes; exposure: and it is that I 
wish to avoid. If it has to come, it 
will be your fault. The choice lies 
with you. My decision is unalterable.” 

Sir Karl Andinnian wiped his brow 
of the fever-drops, gathered there. 


It was a bitter moment: and he con- 
sidered that his wife was acting with 
most bitter harshness. Hut no alter- 
native was left him, for he dared not 
risk exposure and its awful consequen- 
ces. 

And so that was the decision. They 
were to live on, enemies, under the 
same roof-top : or, at best, not friends. 
The interview lasted longer ; but no 
! more explicit explanation took place 
I between them : and when they |)arted 
they parted under a mutual and total 
misapprehenion which neither of the 
two knew or suspected. ]\Iisap[)rehen- 
sion had existed throughout the inter- 
view — and was to exist. Ic was one of 
tijose miserable cases that now and then 
occur in tlie world — a mutual misunder- 
standing, for which no one is to blame. 
Sometimes it is never set right on this 
side the grave. 

Her heart was aching just as much 
as his. She loved him passionately, 
and she was calming down from her 
anger to a softer mood, such as partin g 
always brings. “ Will you not send 
the — the people away?” she whisper- 
ed in a last word, and with a burst of 
grief. 

“ If I can I will,” was his answer. 
“ I am hemmed in, Lucy, by all kinds 
of . untoward perplexities, and L-cannot 
do as I would. Good-night. I never 
could have believed you would take it 
up like this.” 

They shook hands and parted. The 
affair had been at last amicably arran- 
ged, so to say: and the separation. was 
begun. 

And so Sir Karl and Lady Andin- 
nian were henceforth divided, and the 
household knew it not. 

Miss Blake did not suspect a word 
of it. She saw no signs of any change 
— for outwardly Sir Karl and his wife 
were civil and courteous to each other 
as usual, meeting at meals, present 
together in dail}^ intercourse. After a 
few days Miss Blake questioned Lady 
Andinnian. 

“ Surely you have not been so fool* 
ishly soft as to condone that matter, 
Lucy ? ” 

But Lucy wholly refused to satisfy 


112 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


lier. Xay, slie smiled, and as good as 
tacitly let ]\Liss Blake suppose that she 
might have been soft and foolish. 
Not even to her, or to any other living 
being, would Lucy betra}" what was 
sacred between herself and her hus- 
band. 

^ ‘‘ I am content to let it rest, Theresa : 

and I must request that you will do the 
same. Sir' Karl and I both wish it.” 

]Miss Blake caught in the smile and 
the gentlj^ evasive words, and was 
struck mute at Lucy’s sin and foll3\ 
She quite thought she ought to have 
an atonement offered up for her at St. 
eTerome’s. Surely Eve was not half 
so frail and Ibolisli when she took the 
apple ! 

CHAPTER XYI. 

A NIGHT AT THE MAZE. 

The IMaze was an old-fashioned, 
curious house inside, full of angles and 
passages and nooks and corners. Its 
rooms were small, and not manj?’ in 
number, the jirincipal ones bei ng fit- 
ted up with dark mahogany wainscot- 
ing. The windows were all casement 
windows with the exception of two: 
into those, modern sashes of good size 
had been [)laced by the late owner and 
occupant, iMr. Throcton. At JMr. 
Throcton’s death the property was put 
up for sale and was bought by Sir 
Joseph Andinnian, furniture and all, 
just as it stood. Or, it ma_y rather be 
said, was bouglit by Lady Andinnian ; 
for tlie whim was hers. Just after the 
purchase had been entirely completed. 
Lady Andinnian sickened and died. 
Sir Joseph, ill at the time, did nothing 
whatever with the new [)lace ; so that 
on his death it came into the posses- 
sion of his heirs in exactly’ the same 
state as when it was purchased. The^^ 
let it be also, and it remained shut up. 
According to what Mr. Smith informed 
iMiss Blake — and he was in the main 
correct, though not quite — Mrs. Grey 
had come to it and taken possession 
while ]\Irs. Andinninn lay ill at Box- 
wood and her son Karl was in atten- 


dance on her. But the little fable the 
agent had made use of — that he had 
gone over to the IMaze to receive the 
premium from IMrs. Grey on taking 
possession — had no foundation in fact. 
He had certainly gone to the INFaze 
and seen the lad}^ called IMrs. Grey, 
but not to receive a premium, for she 
paid none. 

The two rooms into which sash win- 
dows had been placed were — the one 
that faced IMiss. Blake when she had 
penetrated to the confines of the IMaze 
on that unluck}’ day, and within which 
she had seen the unconscious .Mrs. 
Grey ; and the one above it. Into this 
upper one the reader must pay a night- 
ly visit. It was used as a sitting- 
room. The same dark mahogany 
wainscoting lined tlie walls as in the 
room below, the furniture was dark 
and heavy-looking; and, in sj)ite 
of the sultry heat of the night, the 
shutters were closed before the window 
and dull crimson curtains of damask 
wool were drawn across them. There 
was nothing bright in the appendages 
of the room, save the lighted lamp on 
the table and a crystal vase of hot- 
house flowers. 

Seated at the table at work — the 
making of an infant’s frock — was IMrs. 
Grey. Opposite to her, in the space 
between the table and the lire-place, 
sat Sir Karl ; and by her side, facing 
him — Adam Aiuliiinian. • 

It is more than probable that this 
will be no sur|)rise ; that the reader has 
ah’eady divined the truth of the secret, 
and all the miserable complication it 
had brought and was bringing in its 
train. It was not Adam Andin- 
nian who had died in that fatal scufHe 
off Portland Island — or, more strictly 
s]!)eaking, off Weymouth — but one of 
the others who had been concerned in 
it. 

Yes, there he sat, in life and in 
health ; his speech as free, his white 
and beautiful teeth not less conspicu- 
ous than of yore — Sir Adam Andin- 
nian. Karl, sitting o[)posite» with his 
grave, sad face, was not in reality Sir 
Karl, and never had been. 

But Adam Andinnian was altered. 


A NIGHT AT THE MAZE. 


113 


Tlie once fine black hair which it had 
used to please him to wear lon^ in the 
neck, was now short, scanty, and turned 
to gray ; his once fine fresh color had 
given place to pallor, and he was grow- 
inga beard that looked gray and stub- 
bly. Decidedly old-looking now, as 
compared to the past, was Adam An- 
dinnian. He wore evening dress : 
just as though he had been attired for 
a dinner party — say — at Foxwood 
Court. Mrs. Grey — as she was called, 
though she was in reality Lad}^ An- 
dinnian — wore a summer dress of clear 
white muslin, through vvdiich might be 
seen her white neck and arms. It was 
the pleasure of her husband. Sir Ad- 
am, that in the evening, when only he 
dar^d to come out of his hiding shell, 
they should keep up, in attire at least, 
some semblance of the state that ought 
to have been theirs. 

I can tell jmu, Karl, that I don’t 
approve of it,” Sir Adam was saying, 
with all his old haughty bearing and 
manner. It’s a regular scandal. 
What business has any one to set up 
such a thing on my land ? ” 

“It’s Truefit’s land for the time be- 
ing, you know, A’dam. He gave the 
consent.” 

“ A parcel of foolish people — be- 
vanited boys of self-called priests, and 
be-fooled girls, running and racing to 
the place four or five times a dny under 
pretence of worship ! ” continued Sir 
Adam, getting up to pace the room in 
liis excitment, as though he would 
have burst tlirough its small confines. 
“ I won’t permit it, Karl.” 

He seemed to have got somewhat 
shorter, and his walk had a limp in it. 
But he was the same hasty, fiery Adam 
Andinnian. A man cannot well change 
liis nature. . 

I do not see how it is to be pre- 
vented,” was Karl’s answer. “ It will 
not do, in our position, to raise a stir 
over any thing, or to make enemies. I 
daresay it will bring itself to an end in 
some way or other.” 

“ The whole parish is making fun of 
it, I find : Ann hears it talked of when 
she goes on errands. And it is a down- 
right insult on Mr. Sumnor. What a 


curious-minded person that Miss Blake 
must be ! Eose ! ” — Sir Adam halted 
close to his wife — “ if ever j^ou put 
your foot inside this St. Jerome’s, I’ll 
not forgive 3^11.” 

She lifted her ej’es to his from the 
baby’s frock. “ I am not likely to go 
to it, Adam.” 

“ The empty-headed creatures that 
girls are now-a-days ! If bull-baiting 
came up, they’d run off to it, just as 
readily as the good girls of former days 
would run from an 3^ approach of evil 
to take shelter under their mother’s 
wing. Does 3mur wife frequent St. Je- 
rome’s, Karl ? ” 

“ Oh no.” 

“ She shows her sense.” 

Karl Andinnian smiled. “ You have 
not lost the old habit, Adam — the put- 
ting 3murself into a heat for nothing. 
I came over this evening to have some 
serious talk with 3^011. Do sit down.” 

“ Yes do, Adam,” added his wife, 
turning to him; “3^11 will get the 
pain in your hip again. Do 3’ou wish 
me to go awa3^ ? ” she added to Karl, 
as she prepared to gather up her work- 
ing materials. 

“No, no, Eose : it’s onl3" the old sto- 
ry, I know — the wanting to get rid of 
me,” interposed Sir Adam, sitting down 
himself. “Stay where you are, wife. 
Now for it, Karl. — Wait a moment, 
though,” he added, ringing the bell. 

It was answered by the same staid, 
respectable-looking servant seen by 
JMiss Blake; the same confidential wo- 
man who had lived with Mrs. Andin- 
nian at We3unouth — Ann Hopley. 

“ Ann, I am as thirsty as a fish,” 
said her master. “ Bring up a bottle 
of soda water and a dash of brand3\” 

“ Yes, sir,” she replied — not daring, 
now or at any other time, to give him 
his title. 

•He opened the soda water himself 
when it was brought, put in the dash 
of brand3’, drank it, and sat down 
again. Karl Andinnian began to 
speak, j^eling an innate certaint}^ that 
his words would be wasted ones. 

But some explanation of the past is 
necessary, and it maj^ as well be given 
here. 


WITH IX THE iMAZE. 


114 


When Karl Andinnian went down 
from London to Weymouth upon the 
news of liis brother’s attempted escape 
and deatli, he found Ids mother in a 
dreadful state of distress — as already 
related. This distress was not put on : 
indeed such distress it would not be 
possible to assume : for ]\[rs. Andinnian 
believed the [)ublic accounts — that Ad- 
am was dead. Af^e?' she had despatch- 
ed Karl to Foxwood to make arrange- 
ments for the interment, the truth was 
disclosed to her. Sir Atlam had escap- 
ed with life, and was 13’ing at a 
house in Wejnnouth ; but he had been 
terribly knocked about in the scuffle, 
and in fact had been considered dead. 
By the careless stupidity of one of the 
warders, or else by his connivance, 
jMrs. Andinnian never entirelj^ knew 
.which, lie was reported at the prison 
as being dead — and perhaps the prison 
thought itself well rid of so obstreper- 
ous an inmate. The warders had said 
one to another from the time he was 
first put there, that that Andinnian 
gentleman had mischief” in him. 
Further explanation ma}’ be given 
later on in the story : at present it is 
enough to say that Adam Andinnian 
escaped. 

When ]\Trs. Andinnian arrived with 
the body (supposed to be her son’s) at 
Foxwood, she knew the trutii. Adam 
was not dead. He was l^’ing some- 
where in great danger; the}^ would 
not, from motives of prudence, allow 
lier to know where ; but dead he was 
not. Xot a hint of this did she dis- 
close to -Karl; and he stood by her 
side over the grave, believing it was 
his brother that was placed in it. 8 he 
called him Sir Karl ; she gave him 
never a hint that his succession to the 
title and estates was but a pseudo one ; 
she suffered him to depart in the false 
belief. Karl went abroad, re-met Luc}" 
Cleeve, and beca.me engaged to her. 
He caused the marriage settlements to 
be drawn up and signed, still never 
dreaming that he had no legal right to 
settle, that the revenues were not his. 
Onl}’ when he went down to Foxwood, 
a day or two before his marriage, did 
he become acquainted with the truth. 


That was the dread secret disclosed 
to him by his mother; that, in her 
fear, she liad made him take an oath 
to keep — “Adam is not dead.” Just 
at the first moment Karl thought her 
intellects must be wandering: but as 
she proceeded in a few rapid words to 
tell of his escape, of his dangerous ill- 
ness, of his lying, even then, hidden 
away from the terrors of the law, all 
the dreadful position of his ill-fated 
brother rushed over Karl as in one long 
agon3\ He saw in vivid colors the haz- 
ard Adam was running — and must 
ever run, until death or re-capture 
should overtake him ; he saw as if por- 
trayed in a mirror the miserable future 
that lay before him, the loiielj’ fugitive 
he must be. 

To Karl Andinnian’s mind, no fate 
in this world could be so miserable. 
Even death on the scaffold would to 
him have been preferable to this life- 
time of living dread. He had loved 
his brother with a keen love; and he 
felt this almost as a death blow: he 
could have died in his love and pit}^, if 
b}^ that means his brother might be 
saved. Singling with this regret had 
come the thought of his own changed 
position, and that he ought not to 
marry. 

This he said. B>ut Mrs. Andinnian 
pointed out to him that his position 
would not be so very materially alter- 
ed. It was her conviction. That she 
herself, by connivance with one of the 
warders, had mainl}^ contributed .to 
the step Adam had taken, that she had 
been the first to put it into his head, 
and set him on fire to attempt it, she 
was all too remorsefull}' conscious of. 
Now that he /lad escaped, and was en- 
tered in the prison rolls as dead, and 
lay liidden away in some hole or cor- 
ner, not daring to come out of it, or to 
let into it the light of day, . she saw 
what she had done. Xot even to her 
might his hiding-place be disclosed. 
She saw that his future life must be, at 

the very best, that of a nameless exile 

•/ ' 

— if, by good fortune, he could make 
his escape from his own land. If? 
His person was rather a remarkable 
one, and well-known to his enemies 


A NIGHT AT THE MAZE. 


115 


tlie police force. Not one, perhaps, 
but had his photograph. A fugitive in 
some barren desert, unfrequented by 
man, wliere he must drag a solitar}’’ 
life of expatriation ! Not much of his 
funds would be needed for this. 

You will have to occupy Foxwood 
as its master; you must be Sir Karl to 
the world as you are now,^’^spoke Mrs. 
Andinnian ; “ and it is your children 
who will inherit after you. There is 
no reason whatever for breaking off 
5'our marriage, or for altering ^ny of 
the arrangements. You will have to 
pay a certain sum yearly to Adam out 
of the estate. He will not need it 
long, poor fellow ; a banned man’s life, 
banned to the extent his will be, eats 
itself away soon.” 

Hemmed in by perplexities of all 
kinds, Karl’s interview with his moth- 
er ended, and he went forth with his 
care and trouble. His own trouble 
would have been enough, but it was as 
nothing to that felt for his brother. 
He dared not tell the truth to Colonel 
Cleeve or to Lucy ; he almost as little 
dared, for Lucy’s sake, to break off the 
marriage. And so it took place. 

After that, he heard no more until he 
was again at Foxwood, summoned 
thither by his mother’s illness. Mrs. 
Andinnian had fretted herself sick. 
Night and day, night and day was the 
fear of her son’s discovery ever before 
her mind ; she used to see the recap- 
ture in her dreams : remorse wore her 
out, and fever supervened. She would 
have given all she possessed in the 
world could he be safely back at Port- 
land Island without having attempted 
to quit it. Karl, on his arrival, found 
her in this sad state : and it was then 
she disclosed to him a further compli- 
cation in the case, which she had but 
recently learnt herself. Sir Adam An- 
dinnian was married. 

It ma}’ be remembered that he was 
for a few days absent from his home in 
Northamptonshire, returning to it only 
on the eve of the day that news came 
of Sir Joseph’s death, the fatal day 
when he killed Martin Scott. He had 
left home for the purpose of marrying 
Rose Turner, who was staying in Bir- 


mingham, a measure which had been 
planned between them previously. But 
for his mother’s prejudices — as he call- 
ed them — he would have married the 
young lady in the face of day; but he 
knew she would never consent, and he 
did not care openly to set her at naught. 
“ We will be married in private, Rose,” 
he decided, and I will feel my way 
afterwards to disclose it to my mother.” 
And Miss Rose Turner cared for him 
too much to make any objections. 
Alas, the time never came for him to 
disclose it. On the very day after his 
return to his honfe, the young lady re- 
turning to hers, to her unsuspicious 
friends, he was thrown into prison on 
the charge of murder. It was not a 
time to speak ; he wished to spare com- 
ment and annoyance to>her ; and she 
gave evidence at the trial — which she 
could not have done had she been his 
acknowledged wife. All this had been 
disclosed to Mrs. Andinnian after 
Karl’s marriage. The stranger, !Mr. 
Smith, spoken of by Hewitt as pre- 
senting himself at Foxwood, and de- 
manding an interview with its mistress, 
told her of it : but not then, it was 
another bitter blow to Mrs. Andinnian, 
and no doubt helped to bring on the 
fever. This, in her turn, she disclosed 
to Karl from her sick bed, and for him 
it made the complication ten times 
worse. Had he known his brother had 
a wife, nothing would have induced 
him to marry Luc}^ IMrs. Andinnian 
told him more ; that Adam had es- 
caped safely to London, where he then 
lay hidden, and where his wife had 
joined him; and that they were com- 
ing to inhabit the Maze at Foxwood. 
The last bit of news , nearly struck 
Karl dumb. 

Is he mad?” he asked. 

“No, very sane,” replied Mrs. An- 
dinnian. “ He wants to be at least on 
his own grounds : and we all think — 
he and I and Mr. Smith — that he may 
be safer here than anywhere. Even 
were there a suspicion abroad that he 
is alive — which there is not, and I trust 
never will be, — his own place is the 
very last place that people would look 
into for him. Besides, there will be 


116 


WITIIIX THE MAZE. 


precautions used — and the ^laze is fa- 
vorable for concealment.’’ 

“ It will be utter madness,” spoke 
Karl. It will be putting himself in- 
to the lion’s mouth.” 

‘^It will be nothing of the sort — or 
I\rr. Smith would not approve of it,” 
retorted ]\Irs. Andinnian. I must 
see mv son, Karl : and how else am I to 
see him? I may not go to him where 
lie is : it might bring suspicion on him ; 
but I can go over to the maze.” 

‘‘ Who is Mr. Smith ? — and what 
has he to do with Adam ? — and how 
comes he in the secret?” reiterated 
Karl. 

But to this he could get no answer. 
Whether Mrs. Andinnian knew, or 
whether she did not know, she would 
not say. The one fact — that Mr. 
Smith held the dangerous secret, and 
must be conciliated, was quite enough, 
she said, for Karl. Mr. Smith had 
Adam’s safety and interest at heart 
she went on to state; he wished to be 
near the Maze to watch over him ; and 
she had given him the pretty cottage 
opposite the Maze gates to live in, call- 
ing him Sir Karl’s agent, and appoint- 
ing him to collect a few rents, so as to 
give a coloring of ostensibility to the 
neighborhood; In vain Karl remon- 
strated. It was useless. The ground 
seemed slipping from under all their 
feet, but he could do notliing. 

After all, poor Mrs. Andinnian did 
not live to see her most beloved son. 
Anxiety, torment, restlessless, proved 
too much for her, and brought on the 
crisis sooner than was expected. On 
the very day after she died, the tenants 
came to the Maze — r at least,^all the 
tenants who would be seen openly, or 
be suspected of inhabiting it. They 
arrived by tlie last evening train ; Mrs. 
Grej' and her attendants, the Hopleys : 
and took two flies, which were waiting 
in readiness, on to the Maze ; the lady 
occupying one, Hopley and his wife 
the other. How Adam Andinnian 
reached the place, it is not convenient 
yet to state. 

In the course of the next evening, 
Karl Andinnian went over to the Maze 
and saw his brother. Adam was much 


altered. In the fever which had super- 
vened on his injuries received at the 
escape, he had lost his hair and become 
pale and thin. But his spirits were 
undaunted. He should soon pick 
up” now he was in the free open coun- 
try air and on his own grounds, he 
said. As to danger, he seemed not to 
see it, and declared there was less dan- 
ger of discovery there than any where 
else. Karl could play the grand man 
and the baronet for him at Boxwood — 
But he meant, for all that, to have a 
voice in the ruling of his own estate. 
Poor Karl Andinnian, on the contrary, 
saw the very greatest danger in the po- 
sition of affairs. He would liave pre- 
ferred to shut up Foxwood, leaving 
only Hewitt to take care of it, that 
no chance of discovery should arise 
from either servants or other inhabit- 
ants there. But Sir Adam ruled it 
otherwise ; sajdng he’d not have the 
Court left to stagnate. Hewitt was in 
the secret. It might have been nei- 
ther expedient nor practicable to keep 
it from Inm ; but the question was de- 
cided of itself. One evening just be- 
fore Mrs. Andinnian’s death, when 
Hewitt had gone to her sick room on 
some errand at the dusk hour, she mis- 
took him for Karl ; and spoke words 
which betrayed all. Karl was glad of 
it: it seemed a protection to Adam, 
rather than not, that his tried old ser- 
vant should be cognizant of the truth. 
So Karl went abroad again with his 
wife, and stayed until his keeping 
aloof from Foxwood began to excite 
comment in his wife’s family; when he 
deemed it more expedient to return to 
to it. 

And now does the reader perceive 
all the difficulties of Karl Andinnian ? 
There he was, in a false position : mak- 
ing believe to be a baronet of the realm, 
and a wealth}'' man, and the owner of 
Foxwood : and obliged to make believe. 
A hint to the contrary, a word that he 
was not in his right place, might have 
set suspicion afloat — and heaven alone 
knew what would be the ending. For 
^Adam’s sake he must be wary and 
cunning; he must play, so to say, the 
knave’s part and deceive the world. 


A NIGHT AT THE MAZE. 


But the dread of his brotlier’s discov- 
ery lay upon him night and da}", with 
a very-present awful dread ; it was as a 
burning brand of fire eating away his 
heart. 

And again — you, my reader, can 
now understand the complication be- 
tween Karl and his wife. He believed 
she had discovered the fact that Adam 
was alive and living concealed at the 
IMaze ; sliQ^ relying on Miss Blake’s 
information, put down the Maze mys- 
tery to something of a veiy different 
nature. How could he suppose she 
meant anything but the dangerous 
truth ? How could she imagine that 
the secret was any other than Miss 
Blake had so clearly and convincingly 
disclosed to her ? In Lucy’s still al- 
most maidenly sensitiveness, she could 
not bring her lips to allude openly to 
the nature of her charge : and there 
was no necessity: she assumed that 
he knew it even better than she did. 
In his reluctance to pronounce his 
brother’s name or hint at the secret, 
lest even the very air should be 
treacherous and carry it abroad, he 
was perhaps less open than he might 
have been. When he offered to relate 
to her the whole story, she stopped 
him and refused to listen : and so 
closed up the explanation that would 
have set the cruel doubt to rights and 
her heart at rest. 

Sitting there with Adam to-night, 
in that closely curtained room, Karl 
entered upon the matter he had come 
to urge — that his brotlier should get 
away from the Maze into some safer 
place. It was, as Sir Adam expressed 
it, but the old story — for Karl had nev- 
er ceased to urge it from the first — and 
he wholly refused to listen. There 
was no risk, he said, no fear of dis- 
covery, and he should not go away 
from his own land. Either from this 
little particular spot of land which 
was individually his, or from the land 
of his birth. It was waste of words in 
Karl to speak further. Adam had al- 
ways been of the most obstinate pos- 
sible temperament. But the (sup- 
posed) discovery of his wife had 
frightened Karl worse than ever. 
He did not mention it to tliem, since 


117 

he was not able to say how Lucy had 
made it. 

As sure as you are living, Adam, 
you will some day find the place en- 
tered by the officers of justice!^’ he 
exclaimed in pain. 

Let them enter it,” recklessly an- 
swered Sir Adam. They’ll not find 
me.” 

Oh Adam, you don’t know. They 
are lynx-eyed and crafty men.” 

^‘No doubt. I am all safe, Karl.” 

Karl had been there longer than 
usual, and he rose to saj^ good night. 
Mrs. Grey — for convenience sake we 
must continue to call her by that 
name, and Lucy Lad}^ Andinnian — 
folded up her work and went down 
stairs with him. She was changed 
too; but for the better. The very 
pretty, blooming - faced Bose Turner 
had come in for her share of the 
world’s bitter trouble, and it had spir- 
itualized her. The once round face 
was oval now, the lovely features were 
refined, the damask cheeks were a 
shade more delicate, the soft blue eyes 
had a sad light in them. Miss Blake’s 
words were not misapplied to her — 

beautiful as an angel.” 

“Karl,” she whispered, “the dread 
of discovery is wearing me out. If we 
could but get away from England ! ” 

“ I am sure it will wear out me,” 
was Karl’s answer. 

“ Adam is afraid of Mr. Smith. 
He thinks he would stop his going. 
Karl, I fully believe, as truly as ever 
I believed any great truth in my life, 
that Mr. Smith is keeping us here and 
will not let us go. Mr. Smith may 
appear to be a friend outwardl}", but I 
fear he is an inward enemy. Oh, 
dear ! it is altogether a dreadful situ- 
ation.” 

Karl went on home, his brain active, 
his heart sinking. The manner in 
which his wife had taken the matter 
up, distressed him greatl}’. He sup- 
posed she was resenting it chiefly on 
the score of her father and mother. 
The colonel had told him that they 
would rather have followed Lucy to 
the grave than see her his wife if Sir 
Adam had lived. 

“ I wonder how she discovered it ? ” 


118 


WITHIN THE MAZE 


ran bis thoughts — but in truth the fact 
did not excite so much speculation in 
his mind, because he was hourly living 
in the apprehension that people must 
suspect it. When we hold a danger- 
ous secret, this is sure to be the case. 
‘‘ Perhaps Hewitt let drop an incau- 
tious word,’’ he went on musing, ^‘and 
Lucy caught it up, and guessed the 
rest. Or — perhaps I dropped one in 
my sleep.” 

Crossing the lawn of the Court, he 
entered the little smoking-room, 
his hand pressed upon his aching brow. 
No wonder that people found fault with 
the looks of Sir Karl Andinnian ! He 
was wearing to a skeleton. Just as 
his mother, when she was d3’ing, used 
to see the recapture of Adam in her 
dreams, so did Karl see it in his. 
Night after night would he awake up 
from one of the dreadful visions. Ad- 
am, the re-taken convict, held fast by 
a heap of scowling, threatening war- 
ders, and a great frightful scaffold con- 
spicuous in the distance. He would 
start up ill bed in horror, believing it 
was all real, his heart quivering, his 
liairdamp : and once or twice he knew 
that he had cried out aloud. 

Yes, 3^es, that’s how it must have 
been,” he said, the mystery becoming 
apparentl}’’ clear to his eyes as the 
light of day. Hewitt is too cautious 
and true. I have betrajed it in my 
sleep. Oh, ny^ brother ! Maj^ heaven 
help and save him ! ” 

» 

CHAPTEK XVIL 

BEFOKE THE WORLD. 

PoxwooD Court was alive with 
gaiety. At least, what stood for gai- 
ety in that inwardly sad and sober 
liouse. Colonel and IMrs. Cleeve had 
come for a fortnight’s stay. Visits 
were being exchanged with the neigh- 
bors ; dinner parties reigned. The 
Court ha<l its dinners as well as other- 
places. It was not possible for Sir 
Karl and Lad}" Andinnian to accept 
hospitality and not return it: and — at 
any rate during the sojourn of the 
Colonel and his wife — Sir Karl dared 


not shut themselves up as hermits lest 
comment should be excited. So the 
Court held its receptions, and went 
out to other people’s : and Sir Karl 
and Lady Andinnian dressed, and 
talked, and comported themselves just 
as though there was no shadow be- 
tween them. 

Lady Andinnian was growing grav- 
er day by day : her very heart seemed 
to be withering. That Sir Karl paid 
his secret visits to the iMaze at night 
two or three times a week, she knew 
only too well. One of the most inno- 
cent and naturally unsuspicious per- 
sons in the world was she : but, now 
that her eyes had been opened, she 
saw all clearly. Without watching 
and tracking the movements of her 
husband as iMiss Blake had tracked 
them ; in her guileless honor she could 
never have done that, Lady Andin- 
nian was only too fully awake now to 
the nightly strolls abroad of her hus- 
band, and instinct told her for what 
purpose they were taken. 

Life for her at this present time 
seemed very hard to bear. The task 
she had imposed on herself — to endure 
in patience and silence — seemed well 
nigh an impracticable one. The daily 
cross that she had apportioned herself 
to take up felt too heavy for mortal 
frame to carry. Humiliation, jealousy, 
love, waged war with each other with- 
in her, and rendered her very wretch- 
ed. It needed all the good and gentle 
principles instilled into her from early 
childhood ; it needed all the aiding 
strength she was ever praying for, to 
hold on perseveringly in her bitter 
path, and make no sign. At times 
she thought that the silence to which 
she was condemned must eat away her 
heart ; but a chance occurrence or two 
showed her that silence was not the 
worst phase she might have to bear. 

On the day after Mrs. Cleeve’s ar- 
rival, she was upstairs in her daugh- 
ter’s chamber. Miss Blake was also 
there. Lucy had come iiq hot and 
tired, from an Jifternoon walk to Mar- 
garet Sumnor’s, and Aglae had been 
summoned to help her to change her 
silk dress for an unpretending muslin. 

I did not know it was so hot be- 


BEFORE THE WORLD. 


119 


fore I went out, or I’d not have put on 
the silk,” observed Lucy. ‘^Sitting 
so quietly with you all the morning, 
mamma, in that cool drawing-room 
talking of old times, I forgot the 
heat.” 

Mrs. Cleeve made no particular re- 
ply. She was looking about her; tak- 
ing silent notice. The doors of com- 
munication to the further chamber 
stood open, as was usual during the 
day : Lucy took care of that, to keep 
down suspicion in the house of there 
being any estrangement between her- 
self and her husband. 

‘^And you have made this your 
room, Lucy, my dear?” observed 
Mrs. Cleeve. 

Yes, mamma.” 

And that further one is Sir KarPs ! 
Well, r m sure you are getting quite a 
fashionable couple — to have separate 
rooms. I and your papa never had 
such a thing in our lives, Lucy.” 

Lucy Andinnian grew crimson : as 
if a flush of the summer heat were 
settling in her face in a fleiy flame. 
She murmured, in reference to the re- 
marks, some words about the nights 
being so very hot, and that she liad 
felt a sort of fever upon her. The 
very consciousness of having the truth 
to conceal caused her to be more ur- 
gent in rendering some plea of excuse. 
Aglae, whose national prejudice had 
been particularly gratified at the alter- 
ation, and who had lived too long in 
IMrs. Cleeve’s service to keep in wliat- 
ever opinion might rise to her tongue’s 
end, hastened to speak. 

But and is it not the most sensible 
arrangement, madame, that my lady 
and Sir Karl could have made, when 
the summer is like an Afric summer 
for the hotness? Mademoiselle here 
knows that.” 

Don’t appeal to me, Aglae,” cried 
Miss Blake, in a frozen tone. 

‘‘Yes, yes, Aglae; I say the fashion 
is coming upiri England ; and perhaps 
it induces to comfort,” said Mrs. ■ 
Cleeve. 

“ But certainly. And, as madame 
sees” — pointing through the little sit-- 
ting-room to the further chamber — “ it 


is but like the same chamber. When 
Sir Karl is in that and my lady in this, 
thej^ can look straight at one another.” 

“Aglae, see to these shoulder- 
knots,” interposed Lady Andinnian. 
“You have not put them level.” 

“And talk to each other too, if they 
please,” persisted Aglae, ignoring the 
ribbons to u[)hold her opinion. “ Mad- 
ame ought to see that the arrangement 
is good.” 

“At any rate, Lucy, I think you 
sliould have kept to the large room 
yourself, and Sir Karl have come to 
the smaller one,” said Mrs. Cleeve. 

“ It’s the very remark I made to my 
lady,” cried- Aglae, turning at length 
to regard the two shoulder- ribbons 
with a critical eye. “But my lady 
chose, herself, this.” 

Oh how Lucy wished they would be 
silent. Her poor flushed face knew 
not where to hide itself; her head and 
heart were acliing with all kinds of 
perplexity. Taking up the eau de 
cologne flask, she saturated her hand- 
kerchief and passed it over her brow. 

“ Has my lady got ache to her 
head ? ” 

‘‘ Yes. A little. Alter these rib- 
bons, AgHe. and let me go.” 

“ It is because of this marvellous 
heat,” commented Aglae. “ Paris 
this summer would not be bearable.” 

Aglae was right in the main, for it 
was an unusually hot summer. The 
intense heat began with Easter, and 
lasted late into autumn. In one sense 
it was favorable to Lucy, for it upheld 
her given excuse in regard to the 
sleeping arrangements. 

Miss Blake had stood all the while 
with drawn-in lips. Seeing always the 
doors open in the day-time, no suspicion 
of the truth crossed her. She believed 
that what she had disclosed to Lucy 
was no more to her than the idle wind, 
once Sir Karl had made good his own 
false cause. 

A question was running through 
Miss Blake’s mind now — it had been 
in it more or less since jMrs. Cleeve 
came : should she, or should she not, 
tell that lady what she knew? She 
had deliberated upon it; she had set 


120 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


herself to argue the point, for and 
against: and yet, down deep in her 
heart from the first had lain the innate 
conviction that she should tell. In the 
interests of religion and morality, she 
ought not to keep silence ; for the sup- 
pression of iniquity and deceit, she 
was bound to speak. Had Lucj^ but 
taken up the matter rightly, there 
would have been no necessit}^ for her 
to liave again interfered : neither | 
should she have done it. But Lucy 
had set her communication at naught : 
and therefore, in Miss Blake’s judg- 
ment, the obligation was laid upon 
her. Wh}^ — how could she, who was 
only second to the Bev. Guy Catta- 
comb in the management and worship 
at St. Jerome’s; who prostrated her- 
self there in prayer ever so many 
times a daj" to the edification and ex- 
ainple of Boxwood — how could she 
dare to hold cognizance of a mine of 
evil, and not strive to put an end to it, 
and bring it home to its enactors? 
Every time she went to that holy 
shrine, St. Jerome’s, every time she 
came bac.k from it, its sacred dust, as 
may be said, hallowing Iter shoes, she 
liad to pass those iniquitous gates, and 
was forced into the undesirable 
thoughts connected with them ! 

If Miss Blake had wavered before, 
she fully made Iter mind up now, as 
she stood there in the chamber, the 
conversation dying away on her ears. 
Aglae was attending to the shoulder- 
knots ; Lucy was {)assive under the 
maid's hands ; and Mrs. Cleeve had 
wandered into the little intermediate 
sitting-room. No longer a dressing- 
room ; Lucy had given it up as such 
when she changed her chamber. She 
had some books and work and her desk 
there now, and sat there whenever she 
could. JMiss Blake stood on, gazing 
from the window and perfecting her 
resolution. She thought she was but 
acting in the strict line of wholesome 
duty, just as disinterestedly as the 
Archbishop of Canterbury might have 
done : and she would have been very 
much shocked had any body told her 
she was only actuated by a desire of 
taking vengeance on Karl Andinnian. 


She wanted to bring home a little con- 
fusion to him ; slie Imped to see the 
young lady at the jMaze turned out of 
the village amidst a flourish of ironi- 
cal drums and shrieking fifes, played 
behind her, leaving Boxwood Court to 
its peace. But IMiss Blake was in no 
hurry to speak: she must watch her 
opportunit3\ 

They were engaged to dine the fol- 
I lowing day at a distance, four or five 
miles off; a ball to follow it. Lady 
Andinnian, radiant in her white silk 
bridal dress, entered the room leaning 
on the arm of her good-looking hus- 
band. Who could have dreamt that 
they were living on ill terms, seeing 
them now? In public they were both 
cautiously courteous to each other, ob- 
serving every little obligation of soci- 
ety, and in truth Karl at all times, at 
home and out, was in manner affec- 
tionate to his wife. 

There were two carriages: and, in 
going, Lucy had occupied one with 
her father; Karl, Mrs. Cleeve, and 
Miss Blake the other. Lucy had in- 
tended to return in the same order, 
but found she could not. Colonel 
Cleeve, unconscious of doing wrong, 
entered the carriage with Ids wife and 
Aliss Blake : Lucy and her husband 
had to sit together. The summer’s 
night was giving place to dawn. 

I fear you are tired, Luc}q” said 
he kindl}". 

“ Yes, very. I wish I was at home.” 

She drew her elegant white cloak 
about her with its silken tassels, gath- 
ered herself into the corner of the car- 
riage, and shut her ej’es, seemingl}^ in- 
teading to go to sleep. Sleep! her 
heart was beating too wildly for that. 
But she kept tliem resolutely closed, 
making no sign ; and never another 
word was spoken all the way. Sir Karl 
helped her out : the others had al- 
ready arrived. 

‘‘ Good night,” she whispered to him, 
preparing to run up the stairs. 

Good night, Luc^’.” 

I>ut, in spite of Lady Andinnian’s 
efforts to make the best of things and 
show no sign, a mother’s eye could not 
be deceived; and before Mrs. Cleeve 


BEFORE THE WORLD. 


121 


had been many days in the house, she 
was struck witli an underlying aspect 
of sadness that seemed to pervade 
Lucy. Her cheerfulness appeared to 
be often forced; this hidden sadness 
was real. Unsuspecting Mrs. Cleeve 
could come to but one conclusion — lier 
daughter’s health must be deranged. 

“Since when have you not felt well, 
Lucy?” she asked her confidentially 
one da3% when they were alone in Lu- 
cy’s little sitting-room. 

Luc}’, buried in a reverie, woke up 
with a start at the question. ‘‘ I am 
very well, mamma. Why should you 
think I am not ? ” 

“ Your spirits are unequal, Lucy, 
and you certainly do not look well ; 
neither do you eat as you ought. My 
dear, I think — I hope there must be a 
cause for it.” 

“What cause?” returned Lucy, 
not taking her meaning. 

“ We should be so pleased to welcome 
a little heir, my dear. Is it so ? ” 

Luc}" — she had just dressed for din- 
ner — colored painfully: face, neck, 
arms, all turned of a hot, burning red. 
Mrs. Cleeve smiled. 

“Ko, mamma, I think there is no 
cause of that kind,” she answered in a 
lovv, nervous tone. And only herself 
knew the bitter pang that pierced her 
as she remembered how certain it was 
that there could be no such cause for 
the future. 

But Mrs. Cleeve held to her own pri- 
vate opinion. “ The child is shy in 
these early days, even with me,” she 
thought. I’ll say no more.” 

One morning during this time, 
Karl was sitting alone in his room, 
when Hewitt came to him to say Smith 
the agent was asking to see him. Karl 
did not like Smith the agent ; he 
doubted, dreaded, and did not compre- 
hend him. 

“Will you see him, sir?” asked 
Hewitt in a low tone, perceiving the 
lines on his master’s brow. 

“ I suppose I naust see him, Hewitt,” 
was the repl}" — and the confidential, 
faithful servant well understood the 
force of the must. “ Show him in.” 

“ Beg pardon for disturbing jmu so 


early. Sir Karl,” said the agent, as 
Hewitt brought him in and placed a 
chair. “There’s one of your small 
tenants dropping into a mess, I fancy. 
He has got the broker in for taxes, or 
something of that kind. I thought 
I’d better let you know at once.” 

Hewitt shut the door, and Karl push- 
ed awa}'- the old letters he had been 
sorting. Sir Joseph’s papers and ef- 
fects had never been examined yet ; but 
Karl was settling to the work now. 
That Mr. Smith had spoken in an un- 
usually loud and careless tone, he no- 
ticed : and therefore judged that this was 
but the ostensible plea for his calling, 
given lest any ears should be about. 

•“ Which of nyy tenants is it, Mr. 
Smith ? ” he quietl}" asked. 

Mr. Smith looked round to be sure 
that the door was closed, and then ask- 
ed Sir Karl if he’d mind having the 
window shut ; he felt a bit of a draught. 
And he shut the glass doors himself 
with his one hand, before Sir Karl 
could assent or rise to do it. 

“ it is Seaford tiie miller,” he answer- 
ed. “ And ” — dropping his voice to the 
lowest and most cautious tone — “ it 
is a fact that- he has the brokers in for 
some arrear of Queen’s rates. But the 
man has satisfied me that it is but a tem- 
porary embarrassment; and I think. Sir 
Karl, your rent is in no danger. Still 
it was right that you should know of 
it ; and it has served just in the nick of 
time, to account for my coming in.” 

“ What is the real object ? ” inquired 
Sir Karl, in a voice as cautious as the 
other. 

Mr. Smith took the newspaper out 
of the pocket of his light summer coat ; 
borrowed his disabled hand from the 
sling to help unfold it, and then point- 
ed to a small paragraph. It ran as 
follows : — 

“Curious rumors are afloat connect- 
ed with a recorded attempt at escape 
from Portland Island, in which the 
unfortunate malefactor met his death. 
A mysterious whisper has arisen, we 
know not how or whence, that the 
death was but a fiction, and that the 
man is at large.” 


122 


AVITIIIN THE MAZE. 


paper is it?’’ cried Karl, 
trying to force some color into bis wliite 
lij^s. 

*• Only one in which all kinds of 
stories are got up,” rejoined ]\[r. Smith, 
showing the title of a sensational 
weekly pnj>er. “The paragraph may 
have resulted from notliing but the 
imagination of some penny-a-liner, Sir 
Karl, at fault for real matter.” 

“ I don’t like it,” observed Karl 
after a pause. “Assume that it may 
be as you suggest, nothing more, this 
very announcement will be the means 
of drawing people's thoughts towards 
it.” 

“Not it,” spoke Mr. Smith. “And 
if it does? — nobody will think it points 
to Sir Adam Andinnian. Another 
prisoner has been killed since then, 
trying to escape.” 

“ How do you know that? ” 

“ I do know it,” replied Mr. Smith, 
emphatically. I^ut he advanced no fur- 
ther proof. “ It was a curious thing, 
my getting this paper,” he continued. 
“ Yesterday I was over at Basham, 
mistook the time of the returning train, 
and found when I reached the station 
that I had to wait three quarters of an 
hour. Tile only newspapers on the 
stand were these weekly ones ; I 
bought this to while away the time, 
and saw the paragraph.” 

“ These events, looked upon as 
chance and errors, are in reality 
ordained,” spoke Karl dreamily. 
“ What can be done, Mr. Smith ? ” 

“Xothing; nothing. Sir Karl. 
There’s nothing to do. He is safe 
enough where he is — even if the rumor 
did come to be looked into by the law’s 
authorities. Bely upon it, the Maze 
will never be susjiected.” 

“ I wish to heaven he had never 
come to the IMaze ! ” was Karl Andin- 
nian’s pained rejoinder. 

“It might be better on the whole 
that he had not,” acknowledged Mr. 
Smith. “ The plan originated with 
himself and the late IMrs. Andinnian — 
and they carried it out.” 

“ I wish,” said Karl, speaking upon 
sud<len im|)ulse, “ tiiat you would allow 
me to know how you became connected 


with this affair of my unfortunate 
brother — and what you still have to do 
with it.” 

“ How I became connected with it 
does not signify,” was the short and 
read}" answer. “ As to what I have to 
do with it still, you know as well as I. 
I just watch over him — or rather the 
place that contains him — and if danger 
should arise I shall be at hand to, I 
hope, give him warning and to protect 
him from it.” 

He ought to be got away from the 
IMaze,” persisted Karl. 

“He’d never get away in safety. 
Especially if there’s anjThing in 
this” — striking his hand on the news- 
paper paragraph. “ With my consent, 
he will never try to.” 

Karl did not answer ; but he 
thought the more. That this man was 
tlie true impediment to his brother’s 
escape ; that he was in fact keeping 
him where he was, he believed with his 
whole heart. Once Sir Adam could 
be safe away from the kingdom, Mr. 
Smith no doubt foresaw that he might 
no longer enjoy Clematis Cottage to 
live in, or the handsome sum which he 
received quarterly. A sum that IMrs. 
Andinnian had commenced to pay, and 
Karl did not dare to discontinue. The 
words were but a confirmation of his 
opinion. Mr. Smith was Adam’s ene- 
my, not friend ; he was keeping him 
there for his own self-interest : and 
Karl feared that if Adam attempted to 
get away in spite of him, he might in 
revenge deliver him up to justice. 

“ He could' not be as safe anywhere 
in England as here,” concluded IMr. 
Smith, as if he divined Karl’s 
thoughts. “The police would suspect 
every hole and corner of the country, 
every town, little and big, before they 
would suspect his own home. As to 
sailing away for another land, the 
danger of his recognition would be too 
great both on the voyage and on em- 
barking for it, for him to dare it. 
He’d be discovered as sure as apple- 
trees grow a})[)les.” 

“Will it be better to tell him of 
this?” cried Karl, alluding to the 
newspaper. 


BEFORE THE WORLD. 


123 


think not. Just as you please, 
though, Sir Karl. Rely upon it, it is 
only what I suggest — an emanation 
from some peniiy-a-liiier’s inventive 
brain. 

The paper had better be burnt/^ 
suggested Karl. 

‘‘ The very instant I get home,” said 
Mr. Smith, putting the paper in his 
pocket and taking his hat from tlie 
table. I wish I could burn the whole 
i?npi*ession. I’ll go out this way, Sir 
Karl, if you will allow me.” 

Opening the glass doors again, he 
stepped across the terrace to the lawn, 
talking still as though continuing the 
conversation. Other windows stood 
open, and the agent was cautious. 

I’ll be sure to see Seaford in the 
course of the day. You may trust to 
me not to let any of them get behind- 
hand with their rents. Good morning. 
Sir Karl.” 

The agent, however, did not turn 
into his house. Deep in thought, he 
strolled on, up the road, his free hand 
in his light coat pocket, his head bent 
in meditation. He wished he could 
obtain some little light as to this mys- 
terious announcement ; he fancied he 
might be able to. On he strolled, un- 
thinkingl}’’, until he came to St. Je- 
rome’s, the entrance door to which edi- 
fice was ajar. 

‘‘Holding one of their services,’^ 
thought the agent. “ I’ll have a look 
in, and see CattacOmb surrounded by 
his flock of lambs.” 

Mr. Smith was disappointed: for the 
reverend gentleman was not there. It 
appeared to be the hour for cleansing 
the room, instead of one for holding 
service. Four or five young ladies, 
their gowns turned up round their 
waists and some old gloves on, were 
dusting, sweeping, and brushing with 
all their might and main ; Miss Blake 
presiding as high priestess of the cere- 
monies. 

“ They’d not do such a thing in their 
own homes to save their lives,” laugh- 
ed the agent, coming softly out again 
unseen. “ Cattacomb must be in clo- 
ver among ’em ! ” 

He went home then, looked atten- 


tively once more at the alarming para- 
graph, and burnt the newspaper. Af- 
ter that, he paced his little garden, as 
if in a fit of restlessness, and then 
leaned over the gate, lost in reflection. 
The trees of the maze were perfectly 
still in the hot summer aii* ; the road 
was dusty and not a single passenger 
to be seen on it. 

A few minutes, and footsteps broke 
upon his ear. They were Miss Blake’s 
bringing her home from St. Jerome’s. 
She stopped to shake hands. 

“Well,” said he, with a laugh, “all 
the scrubbing done ? ” 

“ How do you know anything ah^ufc 
the scrubbing ?” returned Miss Blake. 

“ I looked in just now, and saw you 
all at it, dusting and brushing, and 
thought what an enviable young priest 
that Cattacomb must be — Now, my 
lad ! don’t ride over us if you can help 
it.” 

The veiy same butcher-boy, in the 
same blue frock, with his basket of 
meat, had come galloping up to the 
Maze gate, rung the bell, and was now 
prancing across the road on his horse, 
which was very restive. Something 
appeared to have startled the animal : 
and it was to the boy the last remark 
had been addressed. Miss Blake step- 
ped inside the garden gate, held open 
for her — for the horse seemed to think 
the path his own ground as well as the 
highway. 

“He have been shoed this morning, 
and he’s always in this dratted temper 
after it,” spoke the boy gratuitously. 

The woman-servant came out with 
her dish, received the meat, and disap- 
peared again, taking care to lock tlie 
gate after her. SI)e had never left it 
unlocked since the unluck}’’ day when 
Miss Blake got in. Glancing over the 
road, she saw the lady and the agent 
watching her, and no doubt recognized 
the former. 

“ Looks like a faithful servant that,” 
remarked Mr. Smith. 

“ Faithful,” eclioed Miss Blake — 
“ well .yes, she does. But to what a 
mistress ! Fidelity to such a person 
does her no credit.” 

Mr. Smith turned as grave as a 


124 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


judge. Hush ! ” said lie impressive- 
ly. ‘‘Unless one lias sure and good 
ground to go upon, it is better not to 
assume evil.’^ 

“No ground was ever surer than 
this.’’ 

“ My dear young lady, you may be 
utterl}’^ mistaken.” 

She did like the style of address 
from him — m3' dear young lad}' : it 
flattered her vanit}\ But she would 
not give wav. 

“ I have seen what I have seen, Mr. 
Smith. Sir Karl Andinnian would 
not be stealing in there at night, if it 
were proper for him to be seen going 
in the open day.” 

“ Never speak of it,” cried Mr. 
Smith, his tone one of strong command. 

What could }'ou prove? Task, Miss 
Blake, what you could prove — if put 
to it.” 

She did not answer. 

“ Why, nothing. Absolutel}' noth- 
ing. How could }'ou ?” 

Miss Blake considered. “ I think 
there’s a good deal of negative proof,” 
she said, at length. 

“ IMoon shine,” cried Mr. Smith. 
‘^Negative proof in a case of this kind 
alwaj^s is moonshine. Listen, 1113' dear 
IMiss Blake, for I am advising 3'ou now 
as a good friend. Never breathe a 
word of this matter to living soul. You 
don’t know what the consequences to 
yourself might be.” 

“ Consequences to myself! ” 

“ To yourself of course : there’s no 
one else in question. You might be 
sued for libel, and get sentenced to pay 
lieav}^ damages, and a term of impris- 
onment besides. For goodness sake, 
be cautious ! Beniember Jane Shore ! 
She had to stand in the pillor}' in a 
white sheet in the face and eyes of a 
gaping multitude, a lighted taper in 
her hand.” 

“ Jane Shore 1 ” cried Miss Blake, who 
at the above suggestion had begun to 
go as pale as she could well go. “ Jane 
Shore 1 but that was not for libel. It 
was — for — for — ” 

Miss Blake broke down. 

“ Shoreditch is named after her, you 
know,” put in Mr. Smith. “Boor 


thing! she was verylovel}' : raven hair 
and eyes of a violet blue. Keep your 
own counsel, young lad}', implicitly — 
and be silent.” 

IMiss Blake said good morning, and 
walked awa3^ The prospect suggest- 
ed to her, as to the fine and imprison- 
ment, looked anything but a pleasant 
or>e. She resolved henceforth to de si- 
lent ; to jMrs. Cleeve and to all else : 
and, under the influence of this new 
and disagreeable suggestion, she wish- 
ed to her heart she had never opened 
her lips to Lady Andinnian. 

“ Meddlesome old tabby cat,” aspi- 
rated the gallant Mr. Smith. “ She 
might play up Old Beans with her 
tongue. Women are the very deuce 
for being ill-natured to one another.” 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A NIGHT ALARM. 

Colonel and Mrs. Cleeve had de- 
parted again, and the time went on. 
Foxwood Court was comparatively 
quiet. The opening visits on all sides 
had been paid and returned, and there 
was a lull in the dinner parties. The 
weather continued most intensely hot ; 
and people were glad to be still. 

Never had poor Lucy Andinnian felt 
the estrangement from her husband so 
cruell}' as now. At first the excite- 
ment of resentment had kept her up, 
and the sojourn of her father and 
mother, together with the almost daily 
gaiet}', had served to take her out of 
herself : it was only at night during 
the lonel}^ hours, when trouble prevent- 
ed sleep, that she had felt its keenest 
sting. But now : now when she and 
Karl were alone, save for IMiss Blake : 
when she sat in her lonel}' room 
hour after hour, and had leisure 
to realize her true position, Luc}'’ 
gave way to all the aoandonment of 
grief her trial brought. It was indeed 
a bitter one; a fier}' trial : and when 
she looked back to it in after days, she 
could never imagine how she had con- 
trived to bear it. 

Love is an all powerful master : an 


A NIGHT ALARM. 


125 


overruling tyrant. In the first tor- 
ments of awakened jealousy, it is all 
very well to take refuge in revengeful 
anger, and snap our fingers metaphor- 
ically at the beloved one, and say he 
may go promener. The reaction 
comes. Jealousy alas, does not tend 
to do away with love, but to increase it. 
Lucy Andinnian found it so to her 
cost. Her love for Karl had in no whit 
abated : and the very fact of knowing 
he paid those stolen night visits to the 
Maze, while it tortured her jealousy, in 
no wa}" diminished her love. She was 
growing pale and thin ; she questioned 
whether she had done wisely in under- 
taking this most cruel task of bearing 
in patience, hoping it might bring him 
back to his true allegiance ; for she 
knew not whether she could endure on 
to the end. 

There were moments when in her 
desolation she almost wished she was 
reconciled to her husband on any 
terms, even to the extent of condoning 
the wrong and the evil. The strict 
reader must pardon her, for she was 
very desolate. The idea always went 
away at once, and she would arouse 
herself with a shiver. Perhaps of all 
phases of the affair the one that told 
most upon her, that she felt to be more 
humiliating than the rest, was the fact 
of its having been brought close to her 
home, to its ver}’ gates : and a thous- 
and times she asked herself the ambig- 
uous question — Why could not Sir 
Karl rid the Maze of its inmates, and 
convey them to a distance ? 

^'She might have schooled her heart 
to care fqr Karl less had they been 
separated-^ he at the North Pole, say ; 
she at the South.' But they were liv- 
ing under the same roof, and met 
hourly. Jliey went to church togeth- 
er, and paid visits with each other, and 
sat at the same breakfast and dinner 
tables. For their public intercourse 
was so conducted that no suspicion of 
the truth should get abroad, within 
doors or without. As to Karl, he 
waited on his side patiently until his 
wife’s moods should alter ; and he 
treated her with the most anxious 
kindness and consideration. That she 


had taken the matter up with unjusti- 
fiable harshness, he thought : but he 
excused it, knowing himself the real 
culprit for having married her. And 
thus they went on ; Lucy’s spirit 
wounded to the core, and her anguish- 
ed heart pining for the love that she 
believed was not bers. 

She was sitting one Saturday eve- 
ning under the acacia tree, in the deli- 
cate yolored muslin she had worn in 
the day, when Karl came down from 
his dressing-room ready for dinner, 
and crossed the lawn to her. He had 
been to Basham, and she had not seen 
him since the morning. 

You are very pale, Lucy.” 

My head aches badly : and it was 
so pleasant to remain here in the cool 
that I did not go in to dress,” she said 
to him in a tone of apology. 

“And why should you?” returned 
Karl. “ This is as pretty a dress as 
any you have. What has given jmu 
the headache ? ” 

“ I — always have it now, more or 
less,” had been on the tip of her 
tongue; but she broke off in time. 
“ The heat, I think. I got very hot 
to-day, walking to Margaret Sum- 
nor’s.” 

“ It is too hot for walking, Lucy. 
You should take the carriage.” 

“ I don’t like the parade of the car- 
riage when I go to Margaret’s.” 

“ Would you like a little pony- 
chaise ? I will buy you one if 
you ” 

“ No, thank you,” she interrupted 
hastily, her tone a cold one. “I pre- 
fer to walk when I go about Foxwood. 
The heat will pass away sometime.” 

“You were saying the other day, 
Lucy, to some one who called, that 
you would like to read that new book 
on the Laplanders. I have been get- 
ting it for 3mu.” 

He had a white paper parcel in his 
hand, undid it, and gave her a hand- 
somely-bound volume. She felt the 
kindness, and her sad face flushed 
slightly. 

“ Thank you ; thank jmu very 
much. It was good of you to think 
of me.” 


126 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


‘^Ancl I liave been subscribing to 
the Basham library, Lucy, and brouglit 
home tlie first parcel of books. It 
may amuse you to read them.’’ 

*• Yes, I think it will. Thank you. 
Sir Karl.” 

She had neyer called him “Karl” 
when they were alone, since the ex- 
plosion. Now and then occasionally 
before people, she did, including lier 
father and mother. But he under- 
stood quite well that it was onl^^ done 
for appearance’s sake. 

The dinner-hour was at hand, and 
they went in. Very much to the sur- 
prise of both, ]\Ir. Cattacomb was in 
the drawing-room with jMiss Blake. 
Lucy had neither heard nor seen him : 
but the acacia tree was out of sight of 
the front entrance. 

“I haye been telling IMr. Cattacomb 
— he came to me in the heat, on busi- 
ness of St. Jerome’s — that you will be 
charitable enough to give him. some 
dinner,” said Miss Blake, introducing 
]Mr. Cattacomb to Sir Karl in form — 
for it was the first time he had met 
that reverend man. Of course Karl 
could only return a civil answer : but 
lie had not been at all anxious for the 
acquaintanceship of Mr. Cattacomb, 
and was determined not to treat him 
precisely as though he had been an in- 
vited guest. 

“I think you may perhaps prefer to 
take in your friend Miss Blake, as 
Lady Andinnian is a stranger to 3 mu,” 
he said, when Hewitt announced din- 
ner. “ We are not on ceremony now.” 

And Sir Karl caught his wife’s hand 
wdthin his. “ 1 was not going to leave 
you to him.^ Lucy,” he whispered. 

So they went parading in to dinner 
arm-in-arm, this estranged man and 
wife, brushing ])ast Hewitt and the 
tall new footman, who wore powdered 
hair. 

“ It is just as though he did care for 
me!” thought Lucy, glancing at her 
husband as he placed her in lier seat 
at the table’s head. 

Mr. Cattacomb and Miss Blake 
talked a great deal, Karl scarcely at 
all. When alone the dinners at the 
Court were simply served. Sir Karl 


carving. He was attentive to his im- 
promptu guest, and sent him of the 
best : but he thought he had never in 
all his life been in company with so 
affected and vain a man as that V>e- 
lauded clergyman. Once, witli the fish 
before him, Karl fell into a reverie. 
He woke up with a start, looking about 
him like a man bewildered. 

“ Some more fish, Lucv, my dar- 
ling?” 

Lucy’s plate had gone away long be- 
fore. The}^ all saw that he had been, 
so to speak, unconscious of what he 
said. He rallied then; and did not 
lose himself again. 

Dinner over, i\Ir. Cattacomb, making 
an apology, hurried away for some 
slight service at St. Jerome’s, iMiss 
Blake accompanying him as a matter 
of course. Lucy disappeared: and 
Karl, thus abandoned, went to his 
smoking-room. Not to smoke ; but to 
muse upon the acute angles of his po- 
sition — as he was too much given to 
do. Karl Andinnian was a man in a 
net : as things looked at present, there 
seemed to be no chance of freedom 
from it, no hope of it, in the future. 
And his ill-fated brother again ! The 
past night he, Karl, had dreamt one of 
those ugly dreams. He thought he 
saw Adam fleeing from his pursuers; a 
number of them, and they all looked 
like warders of Portland Prison. 
Panting, crying, Adam rushed in, 
seized hold of Karl, and begged him, 
as he valued salvation hereafter, to hide 
and save him. But the warders burst 
in and surrounded them. Poor Karl 
woke up as usual in fright and agony. 
This dream had been recurring to his 
miml all da}' : it was very vivid now in 
the silent evening hour after sunset. 

“I’d give my life to place him in 
safety,” ran his thoughts. “ Not much 
of a gift, either, for I verily believe 
this constant, distressing suspense will 
kill me. If he were but safe in some 
distant land I He might — Why, what 
is Lucy doing ? ” 

Opposite this south window there 
was a beautiful vista through the trees 
of the grounds beyond. Sir Karl had 
seen his wife running swiftly from one 


A XTGHT ALARM. 


127 


walk to anotlier and suddenly stoop — 
as lie fancied. Looking still, he found 
she did not get up again. 

• She must have fallen,’’ he exclaim- 
ed, and rushed out. 

He was with her in a minute. She 
was getting up after her fall, but her 
ankle felt intolerably painful. Karl 
was verj^ tender: he had her in his 
arms, and took lier to a leafy arbor 
close by. There he put her to sit 
down, and held her to him for sup- 
port. 

I have twisted my ancle,” she said. 

It’s nothing.” 

But the tears of pain were in her 
eyes. He soothed her as he would 
have soothed her in the bygone days ; 
holding her in his firm protection, 
wliispering terms of sweet endearment. 
What with the ankle’s sharp twinges, 
what with his loving words, and what 
with her chronic state of utter wretch- 
edness, poor Lucy burst into sobs, and 
sobbed them out upon his breast. 

My darling ! ” the ankle is giving 
you pain.” 

“ The ankle’s nothing,” she said. 

It will soon be well.” But she lay 
there still and sobbed pitiably. He 
waited in silence until she should grow 
calmer, his arm around her. A dis- 
tant nightingale was singing its love 
song. 

Lucy,” began Karl, I would ask 
3mu — now that we seem to be for the 
moment alone with the world and each 
other — >vhether there is au}^ sense in 
living in tlie wa}’’ we do? Is there 
any haf)piness for either of us? I want 
you to forgive all, and be reconciled: I 
want 3mu to see the matter in its 
proper light, apart from prejudice. 
The past is past, and cannot be recall- 
ed : but it leaves no just reason in the 
sight of God or man for our living in 
estrangement.” 

Her head was hidden against him 
still. She did not lift her e^'es as she 
whispered her answer. 

Is there no reason for it now, 
Karl ? Kow, at the present time. 
None?” 

“ No. As I see it, xo ; on m\" word 
of honor as a gentleman. The notion 


you have taken up is an unsound and 
utterly mistaken one. You have grave 
cause to complain : granted : to resent ; 
I admit it all : but surel}" it was not 
enough to justify the rending asunder 
of man and wife. The- past can- 
not be undone — heaven knows I would 
undo it if I could. But there is no 
just cause for 3’our visiting the future 
upon me in this way, and making us 
both pay a heavy penal fy. Won’t 
3mu forgive and forget? Won’t \"ou 
be my own dear wife again ? Oh, 
Luc}^ I am full of trouble and want 
your sjunpathy to lighten it.” 

Her whole heart ^"earned to him. 
He drew her face to his and kissed her 
lips with the sweetest kisses. In her 
bliss and rest that tlie reconciliation 
brought to her heart, Lucv momentari- 
l}’’ forgot all else. Her kisses met his; 
her tears met his cheeks. What with 
one emotion and another — pain, an- 
guish, grief and bliss, the latter upper- 
most — poor Lucy felt faint. The bit- 
ter past was effaced from her memory, 
the change seemed hkc? a glinrpse of 
Paradise. It all passed in a moment, 
or so, of time. 

Oh, Karl, I should like to be your 
wife again!” she confessed. ‘’Tiie 
estrangement we are living in is more 
cruel for me tiian for you. Shall it be 
so ? » 

“ Shall it I ” repeated Karl. Is 
there need to ask me, Lucy ? ” 

It lies with you.” 

^‘Witli me! Whv, how? How 
does it lie with me ? You know, my 
darling ” 

A slight ruffle, as if some one were 
brushing past the shrubs in the oppo- 
site i)ath, caused Karl to withdraw his 
arm from his wife. IMiss Blake came 
up : a note in her hand. Sir Karl 
politel^^, in thought, wished iMiss Blake 
at York. 

“ As I was coming in, Sir Karl, I 
overtook a woman with this note, which 
she was bringing to 3^11. It was the 
servant at the Maze — or some one very 
like her.” 

Miss Blake looked full at Sir Karl as 
she spoke, wishing no doubt that looks 
were daggers. She had added the lit- 


128 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


tie bit of information as to the mes- 
senger, for Lucy’s especial benefit. 
Ivarl thanked lier coolly, and cruslieil 
the note, unopened, into his pocket. 
Luc}", shy, timid Luc}’, was limping 
away. IMiss Llake saw something was 
wrong and held out her arm. 

‘‘What is the matter, Lucy? You 
are in pain ! You have been crying!” 

“ I slipped and hurt my ankle, The- 
resa. It was foolish to cry, though. 
The pain is much less already.” 

■' Y'»Iiss Blake helped her indoors in 
lofty silence. Anything like the con- 
tempt she felt for the weakness of 
Lucy Andinnian she perhaps had nev- 
er felt for any one before in all her life. 
Not for the weakness of ciying at a 
hurt: though that was more befitting 
a child than a woman : but for the 
reprehensible weakness she was guilty 
of in living on terms of aftection with 
her husband. “ jMust even sit in a 
garden arbor together, listening to the 
nightingales,” shrieked Miss Blake 
mentally, with rising hair. “ And 3^et 
— she knows what 1 disclosed to her! ” 

The note was from Mrs. Grey. Had 
IMiss Blake herself presided at its 
opening, she could not reasonably have 
found fault with it. Mrs. Grey pre- 
sented her compliments to Sir Karl 
Audit! ni an, and would feel obliged by 
his calling to see her as soon as con- 
venient, as she wished to speak with 
him on a little matter of business con- 
cerning the house. 

There was nothing more. But Karl 
knew, b}^ the fact of her venturing on 
the extreme step of writing to the 
Court, that he was wanted at the jMaze 
for something urgent. It was several 
days since he had been there: for he 
could not divest himself of the feeling 
that some one of these nightly visits 
of his, more unlucky than the rest, 
might bring on suspicion and betrayal. 
To his uneasj^ mind there was danger 
in every surrounding object. The very 
sound of the wind in the trees seemed 
to whisper it to him as he passed; 
liovering shades of phantom shape 
glanced out to his fancj" from the 
hedges. 

He stayed a short while pacing his 


garden, and then went indoors. It 
was getting dusk. Miss Blake had 
her things off and was alone in the 
drawing-room. The tea waited on the 
table. 

“ Where’s Lucy ? ” he asked. 

“ She went to her room to have lier 
ankle seen to. I would have done any- 
thing for her, but she declined my 
services.” 

Karl knocked at his wife’s little 
sitting-room door, and entered. She 
was leaning on the window-sill, and said 
lier ankle felt much better after the 
warm water, and since Aglae had 
bound it up. Karl took her hand. 

“ We were interrupted, Lucy, when 
I was asking an important question,” 
he began — “for indeed I think I must 
have misunderstood you. How does 
the putting an end to our estrange- 
ment lie with me ? ” 

“ It does lie with 3-011, Karl,” she an- 
swered, speaking feelingl}^ and pleas- 
antly, not in the cold tone of reserve 
she had of late maintained when the}^ 
were alone. “ The estrangement is 
miserable for me ; you sa}- it is for you ; 
and the efibrts we have to make to 
keep up the farce before the household 
and the world, is doubl3^ miserable for 
both of us. We cannot undo our mar- 
riage : but to continue to live as we 
are living is most uusatisfactoiy and 
deplorable.” 

“But it is 3-0U who insisted on liv- 
ing so, Luc}' — to 1113^ surprise and pain.” 

“Could I do otherwise?” she re- 
joined. “ It is a most unhapp3' busi- 
ness altogether: and at times I am 
tempted to wish that it had been al- 
ways kept from me. As you say — and 
I am willing to believe 3’ou, and do be- 
lieve you — the past is past : but you 
know how much of the consequences 
remain. It seems to me that I must 
give way a little : perhaps having tak- 
en my vows as your wife, it may be 
what I ought to do; a duty even in 
God’s sight.” 

“ I)o 3-0U recollect 3mur words to me 
on the eve of our wedding-da3-, Lucy, 
when 1 was speaking of the possibility 
that a deeper blow might fall ; one 
that would dishonor us both in the 


A NIGHT ALARM. 


129 


world’s eyes, myself primarily, you 
through me, and cause you to repent 
of our union ? You should never re- 
pent, 3mu said ; ^mu took me for richer 
for poorer, for better or for worse.’’ 

•^But I did not know the blow would 
be of this kind,” murmured Luc3^ 
‘‘Still, I will do as yo\i wish me — for- 
get and forgive. At least if I cannot 
literally" forget, for that would not be 
practicable, it shall be as though I di<l, 
for [ will never allude to it by word or 
deed. That will be my concession, 
Karl. You must make one on your 
side.” . 

“ Willingl3\ What is it ? ” 

“Clear the Maze of its tenants.” 

He gave a slight start, knitting his 
brow. Lucy saw the proposal was un- 
palatable. 

“ Th eir being there is an insult to 
me, Carl,” she softl}^ said, as if beseech- 
ing the boon. “ You must get them 
away.” 

• “ I cannot, Lucy,” he answered, his 
face wrung with pain. “ I wish I 
could ! Don’t you understand that I 
liave no control over this ? ” 

“ I think I understand,” she said, 
lier tone growing cold. “You liave 
said as much before. Why can you 
not? It seems to me, if things be as 
3^011 intimate, that the matter would be 
easily accomplished. You need onl}^ 
show firmness.” 

He thought how little she under- 
stood. But he could not bear to en- 
large upon it and. said nothing. 

“ There are houses enough, and to 
spare, in the world, Karl.” 

“ Plenty of them.” 

“ Then why not let the Maze be 
left ? ” 

“ More things than one are against 
it, Luc3^ There are wheels within 
wheels,” he added, thinking of Smith 
the mysterious agent. “ One great el- 
ement against it is the risk — the dan- 
ger.” 

“Danger of exposure, do jmu 
mean ? ” 

“ Of discovery. Yes.” 

Never had Karl Andinnian and his 
wife been so near coming to an en- 
lightenment on the misunderstanding 
8 


that lay between them and their peace. 
It passed off — ^just as many another 
good word passes off, unsaid, in life. 

“ hands are tied, Luc3^ If 
wishing the Maze empty would effect 
it, it would be vacant to-morrow. I 
can do nothing.” 

“ I understand,” she said bitterly, 
even as she had said once before, all 
the old resentful indignation rising u[> 
vvdthin her. “ I understand. Sir Karl. 
There are complications, entangle- 
ments; and you cannot free yourself 
from them.” 

“ Precisely so.” 

“/5 the sin of the past?” she ask- 
ed with flashing eyes and a rising 
color ; her voice betraying her frame 
of mind. He gazed at her, unable to 
understand. 

“ Wlu" of course, it is past, Lucy. 
What can you mean ? ” 

“ Oh, you know, you know. Never 
mind. We must go on again as we 
have been going on.” 

“ No, Lucy.” 

“Yes, Sir Karl. As long as those 
people remain in the Maze, tacitly to 
insult me, I will never be more to you 
than I am now.” 

It was a strangelj” harsh decision ; 
and one he could not account for. He 
asked for her reasons in detail, but she 
would not give an3\ All she said fur- 
ther was, that if he felt dissatisfied, she 
could — and should — seek the protec- 
tion of her father and declare the truth. 

So they parted again as the}" had 
parted before. Hemmed in on all 
sides, afraid to move an inch to the 
left or the right, Karl could only sub- 
mit ; he could do nothing. 

“ I was charged by Miss Blake to 
tell you that tea was ready,” he said, 
turning on his heel to quit the room. 

“Ask her to send me a cup by 
Aglae, please. 1 shall sta}" up here to 
rest m}" ankle.” And as Karl closed 
the door upon her, poor Luc3" burst in- 
to a flood of tears, and sobbed as 
though her heart would break. Un- 
derlying all else in her mind was a 
keen sense of insult, of slight, of hu- 
miliation : and she asked herself 
whether she ought to bear it. 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


130 


Pacing the gravel path round the 
trees of tlie IMaze after dark had fallen 
/ — as much dark as a summer’s night 

ever gives us — went Karl Andinnian 
and ilrs. Grey. She, expecting him, 
went to wait for liim just within the 
gate : as she did the evening Miss 
lUake had the satisfaction of watching 
and seeing. It was a still, hot night, 
and she proposed that the}’’ should 
walk round the path once before 
going in: for she had things to say 
to liim. 

“ Why have you kept away these last 
few days, Karl?” she asked, taking 
the arm he offered her. Adam lias 
been so vex6d and impatient over it.” 

He told her why he had kept away 
— that an instinct warned him it might 
be imprudent to come in too often. It 
seemed to him, he added, that the very 
hedges had eyes to watch him. She 
shivered a little, as though some chill 
of damp had struck her; and proceeded 
to relate what she had to say. 

By a somewhat singular coincidence, 
a copy of the same newspaper that con- 
tained' the mj’sterious paragrapli had 
been bought at the little newsvendor’s 
in Boxwood by Ann Hopley, who was 
fond of reading the news when her 
daj^’s work was over. She saw the par- 
agraph, took alarm, and showed it to 
lier master and mistress. 

“It has nearly frightened me to 
death, Karl,” said Mrs. Grey. “ The 
paper was a week old when Ann bought 
it: and I am glad it was, or I should 
have been living upon thorns longer 
than I have been.” 

He told lier that he had seen it. 
And he did what he could to reassure 
her, saying it was probably but an un- 
meaning assertion, put in from dearth 
of nows. 

“ Tliat is just wliatMr. Smith says,” 
she replied. “ He thinks it is from the 
brain of some poor penny-a-liner.” 

“Mr. Smith!” exclaimed Karl. 
“ How do you know ? ” 

“ Adam would see him about it, and 
I sent for him. He, Smith, says there’s 
nothing for it now but staying here : 
and Adam seems to bo of the same 
opinion.” 


“ Were you present at their inter- 
view?” 

“ NTo. I never am. The man is 
keeping us here for purposes of his 
own. I feel sure of it.” 

“ So do I, Eose.” 

“Adam is just as ga}’’ and careless 
as ever iii words, but I think the an- 
nouncement has made him secretly un- 
easy. He is not well to-night.’’ 

“ What is' the matter with him?” 

“ It is some inward pain : he has 
complained of it more than once late- 
ly. And he has been angry and impa- 
tient of an evening because you did 
not come. It is so lonely for liim, you 
know.’’ 

“I do know it, Eose. ^Kothing 
brings me here at all but tliat.” 

“ It was he who made me write to 
you. I was not sorry to do it, for I 
had wanted to see you myself and to 
talk to you. I think I have discover- 
ed something that may be useful'; at 
least, that we may turn to use. First 
of all — Do 3mu remember a year or 
two ago there was a public stir about 
one Philip Salter? He committed a 
great crime: forgery, I think, and es- 
caped from the hands of the police as 
they were bringing him to London by 
rail. I have nearly a perfect recollec- 
tion of it : for my uncle and aunt took 
great interest in it, because they knew 
one of the people whom Salter had de- 
frauded. He was never retaken. At 
least, I never heard of it.” 

“ How long ago was this ? ” 

“ More than two years. It was in 
spring-time, I think.” 

Karl Andinnian threw his recollec- 
tion back. The name, Philip Salter, 
certainl}' seemed to strike on some re- 
mote chord of his memory ; but he had 
completely forgotten its associations. 

“ Wliat of him, Eose ?” he asked. 

“ This,” she answered, her voice 
taking even a lower tone : “ I should 
not be surprised if this Mr. Smith is 
the escaped man, Philip Salter. I think 
he may be.” 

“This man, Smitli, Philip Salter!” 
exclaimed Karl. “But what grounds 
have you for thinking it ? ” 

“ Mr. Smith came over in the eve- 


A NIGHT ALARM. 


nin^, when it was growing dusk. Adam 
saw him in the iip-stairs room. They 
stood at tlie window — perhaps for the 
sake of tlie light, and seemed to be look- 
ingoversome memorandum paper. I was 
walking about outside, and saw them. 
All at once something fell down from 
the window. I ran to pick it up, and 
found it was a pocket-book, lying open. 
Mr. Smith shouted out ^ Don’t touch it, 
Mrs. Grey ; don’t trouble yourself,’ and 
•came rushing down the stairs. But I 
had picked it up, Karl ; and I saw writ- 
ten inside it the name, Philip Salter. 
Without the least intention or tliought 
of prying, I saw it: ‘Philip Salter.’ 
Mr. Smith was up the next moment, 
and I gave him the pocket-book, 
closed.” 

“ His Christian name is certainly 
Philip,” observed Karl after a pause of 
thought. “ I have seen his signature 
to receipts for rent — ‘Philip Smith.’ 
This is a strange thing, Rose.” 

“Yes — if it be true. AYhile he is 
planted here, spying upon Adam, he 
may be hiding from justice himself, a 
criminal.” 

Karl was in deep thought. “Was 
the name in the pocket-book on the 
fly-leaf. Rose — as though it wefb the 
owner’s name ? ” 

“ I think so, but I cannot be sure. 
It was at the top of a leaf certainly. 
If we could but And it out — find that 
it is so, it might prove to be a way of 
release from him,” she added. “ Oh, 
and think of the blessing of feeling 
free! I am sure that, but for him, 
Adam would contrive to escape to a 
safer land.” 

There was no time to say more. The 
night was drawing on, and Karl had to 
go in to his impatient brother. Impa- 
tient ! What should we have been in 
his place ? Poor Adam Andinnian ! 
in his banned, hidden, solitary da3"s, 
what had he to look forward to but 
these occasional visits from Karl ? 

“ I will think it over. Rose, and try 
and find something out,” said Karl as 
they went in. “ Have you told Adam ? ” 

“ No. He is so hot and impulsive, 
jmu know. I thought it best to speak 
to 3m u tirst.” 


131 

“ Quite right. Say nothing to him 
at present.” 

In quitting the Maze that evening, 
Adam, in spite of all Karl could say or 
do, would walk with him to the gate : 
only laughing when Karl called it dan- 
gerous recklessness. There were mo- 
ments when the same doubt crossed 
Karl’s mind that had been once sug- 
gested to him by Mr. Plunkett — Was 
Adam always and altogether sane 
This was one. He absolutel3^ stood at 
the gate, talking and laughing in an un- 
dertone, as Karl went through it.” 

“ Rubbish, Karlo, old fellow,” said 
he to the last remonstran(?b. “ It’s a 
dark night, and not a soul within 
miles of us. Besides, who knows me 
here ? ” 

Karl had locked the gate and was 
putting the key in his pocket, when a 
sound smote his ear and he turned it to 
listen. The tramp, tramp, as of po- 
licemen walking with measured steps 
was heard, coming from the direction 
of the railwa3^-station, and with it the 
scuffle and hum of a besetting crowd. 
It brought into his mind with a rush 
and a whirl that fatal night some 
twelve months before, when he had 
heard the tramp of policemen on the 
other side the hedge — and their pris- 
oner, though he knew it not, was his 
brother, Adam Andinnian. 

“ Adam, do 3^11 hear 1 ” he cried 
hoarsely, “ For the love of heaven, 
hide 3murself.” And Sir Adam disap- 
peared in the maze. 

What with the past recollection, 
what with his brother’s presence, what 
with the approach of these police — as 
he took them to be — what with the ap- 
prehension ever over-lying his heart, 
Karl was seized with a panic of terror. 
Were they coming in search of Adam ? 
He thought so: and all the agony that 
he often went over in his dreams, he 
suffered now in waking reality. The 
hubbub of exposure: the public dis- 
grace; the renewed hard life for him at 
Portland Island; even perhaps — Karl’s 
imagination was vivid just then — the 
scaffold at last in the distance ! These 
visions surging through his brain. Karl 
flew to the other side of the road — lest 


132 


WITHIN THE IHAZE. 


Ills bein," on the side of tlie Maze 
might bring suspicion on it — and 
tlien walked quietly to his own en- 
trance gates. There he stood, and 
turned to look, his head beating, his 
pulses leaping. 

With a relief that no tongue could 
express, Karl saw that the}’’ had passed 
the Maze and were coming on. Pres- 
ently, in the night’s imperfect light, lie 
distinguished a kind of covered stretch- 
er, or hand-harrow, borne by a police- 
man and other men, a small mob fol- 
lowing. 

Is anything amiss ? ’’ he asked, 
taking a few steps into the road, and 
speaking in the quietest tones he could 
just then command. 

‘Mt’s poor Wldttle, Sir Karl,’^ replied 
the policeman, who knew him. There 
were a few scattered cottages skirting 
the wood beyond the Court, and Karl 
recognized the name as that of a man 
who lived in one of them and worked 
at the railway-station. 

‘‘Is he ilir^ asked Karl. 

“ He is dead, Sir Karl. He was 
missed from his work in the middle of 
the afternoon and not found till an 
hour ago, there he was, stretched out 
in the iield, dead. We got Mr. Moore 
round, and he thinks it must have been 
a sun-stroke.’’ 

“ What a sad thing ! ” cried Karl in 
his pitying accent. “Does liis wife 
know?” 

“ We’ve sent on to prepare her, poor 
woman ! There’s five or six little 
children. Sir Karl, more’s the pity ! ” 

“ Ay, I know there are some. Tell 
lier I will come in and see her in the 
morning.” 

A murmur of approbation at the last 
words arose from the bystanders. It 
seemed to them an earnest that the new 
baronet. Sir Karl, would turn out to 
be a kind and considerate man ; as 
good for them perhaps as Sir Joseph 
had been. 

He listened to the tramp, tramp, 
until it had died away, and then turn- 
ed in home with all his trouble and 
care: determined to search tlie news- 
papers — filed by Sir Joseph — before he 
went to rest, for some particulars of 
this Philip Salter. 


“Oh that Adam were but safe in 
some less dangerous land ! ” was the 
refrain, ever eating itself into his brain. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

IN THE SAME TRAIN. 

“ You must step out sharp. Sir Karl. 
The train’s on the move.” 

Sir Karl Andinnian had gone hast- 
ening into the railway-station, all late, 
on Alonday morning, to catch the 
eleven o’clock train, and was taking a 
ticket for London. It was the station- 
master who had addressed him, as he 
handed him his ticket. One of the por- 
ters held open the door of a first-class 
compartment and Sir Karl jumped in.. 

A lady was gathered ifito the corner 
beyond him, her veil down : there was 
no one else in the carriage. Karl did 
not look round at her until the train 
had left the station. And when he 
saw who it was, he thought his eyea 
must be playing him false. 

“ Wliy, Rose ! ” he exclaimed. 
“ Can it be you ? ” 

She smiled and threw her veil back, 
leaning at the same moment to tell him 
why she was there. The whistle set 
up a shriek at the time, and though 
Sir Karl, his ear bent close to her, no 
doubt heard the explanation, the air of 
the carriage did not. ‘‘ Slight accident 
— last night — quite useless — would 
have me come — Rennet — ” were all 
the disconnected words that caught. 

“ I quite shrunk from the journey at 
first,” she said. “ I feel always shy 
and timid now : but I am not sorry to 
go, for it will give me the opportunity 
of uiaking some needful purchases. I 
would rather do it in London than 
Ibisham ; and I did not care to trust 
Ann Hopley to buy these fine little 
things.” 

“ Is Adam better ? ” 

“Yes, I think so. You did not 
come to the Maze last night, Karl. 
He was wishing for you.” 

Karl turned off the subject. The 
fright he had had, coming out on Sat- 
urday night, would serve to keep him 
away for some days to come. In his 


IN THE SAME TRAIN. 


133 


heart of hearts he believed tl)at, in the 
interests of prudence, the less he went 
there the better. 

I suppose you will return to-night, 
Rose ? 

If I can,’’ she answered. It de- 
pends on Rennet. Should I be obliged 
to wait until to-morrow, I shall have 
to sleep at an hotel : Adam had direct- 
ed me to one.” And so the conversa- 
tion innocently progressed, and the 
train went on. 

But now, as capricious fortune had 
it, who should be in that self same 
train but Miss Blake ! Miss Blake was 
going up to London en cachette. That 
is to say, she had not intended Sir 
Karl and Lady Andinnian to know of 
the journey. Some grand piece of 
work, involving choice silks and much 
embroidery, was being projected by 
Miss Blake for Mr. Gattcomb’s use at 
St. Jerome’s: she had determined to 
get the silks at first hand, which she 
could only do in London ; and took the 
train this morning for the purpose. 
‘‘If I am not in to luncheon, don’t 
think anything of it: I can get a bis- 
cuit out,” she said to Lucy : and Miss 
Blake’s general out-of-door engage- 
ments appeared to be so numerous — 
what with the church services, and the 
hunting-up little ragamuffins from their 
mother’s cottages for instruction — 
that Lucy would have thought nothing 
of it had she been away all day long. 
Miss Blake, however, intended to get 
back in the afternoon. 

Seated in her carriage, waiting for 
the train to start, she had seen Sir 
Karl Andinnian come running on to 
the platform ; and she drew her face 
back out of sight. .She saw him put 
into a carriage just behind her own : 
and she felt a little cross that he 
should be going to London at all. 

“ Wliat is taking him, I wonder?” 
she thought. He never said a word 
about it at breakfast. I don’t, believe 
Lucy knows it.” 

Arrived at the terminus. Miss Blake, 
knowing that gentlemen mostly leaped 
out of the train before it had vvell 
stopped, held back herself. Cautiously 
peeping to see him pass and get fairlj^ 


off, she saw what she had not expected 
to see — Sir Karl helping but a ladj’’. 
They passed on quickly : Sir Karl 
carrying a clasped reticule bag, and 
the lady clinging to his arm. She 
was closel}' veiled : but Miss Blake's 
keen eyes knew her through the veil 
for Mrs. Gre}". ' ^ 

Miss Blake could have groaned the 
roof off the carriage. She was the 
onlj’’ passenger left in it. “The deceit- 
ful villain!” she exclaimed: and then 
burst on to the platform, and sheltered 
herself behind a projecting board to 
look after them. 

Sir Karl was putting Mrs. Grey in- 
to a four-wheeled cab. He handed in 
her reticule bag after her, shook hands, 
gave a direction to the driver, and the 
cab went off. Then he looked round 
for a hansom, got in, and was driven 
awav in his turn. Miss Blalce, making: 
good her own departure, believed she 
had not yet suspected half the tricks 
and turns there must be in this wicked 
world. 

“ Poor Luc}’ I poor wife ! ” she mur- 
mured, pityingl3^ “ Maj’’ heaven look 
down and shield her ! ” 

Karl’s errand in London was to see 
what he could find out about Philip 
Salter. On the Saturday" i^ig^^t, pa- 
tiently searching the file of newspa- 
pers — the “ Times ” he at length same 
upon the case. One Philip Salter had 
been manager to a financial firm in 
London, and for some 3'ears managed 
it honestly and ver^^ successful!}". 
But he got speculating on his own ac- 
count, lost and lost, and continued to 
lose, all the while using the funds that 
were not his to prop him up and pre- 
vent exposure. To do this unsuspect- 
ed, he was forced to resort to forgery : 
to fabricate false bonds ; to become, in 
short, one of the worst of felons. The 
day of discovery came ; but j\Ir. Salter 
had not waited for it. He was off, 
and left no trace, as he thought, be- 
hind him. Some clue, however, fiinci 
ed or real, was obtained by a clever or- 
dinary police officer. He went down 
to Liverpool, seized Philip Salter on 
board an American vessel just about to 
steam out of port, and started with 


134 


AVITIIIN THE MAZE. 


1 iin for London at once hy the night 
train, disguised as he was. jMidway ^ 
oil the road, Salter did wliat only a | 
desperate man, fighting for very life, 
would have dared to do — he jumped 
from the carriage and made his escape. 

So much Karl read : but, though he 
searched onwaivls, he could see nothing 
else. S.ome of the newspapers were 
missing; had not been filed; and, it 
might be, that they were the very 
papers that spoke further. He then 
resolved to seek information elsewhere. 

All day on the Sunday it was float- 
ing through his mind. His wife’s 
ankle was better. He walked to 
church with her as usual, sitting by 
lier side in their conspicuous pew — 
j)laced sidewa^^s to the pulpit and ex- 
2 )osed to the eyes of all the congrega- 
tion. Throughout the service, through- 
out the sermon, Karl’s mind was dwell- 
ing on the suspicion connecting Philip 
Smith with Philip Salter. Lucy 
thought him very still : as still and 
sad as herself. The only other con- 
spicuous pew was oppoi^ite ; it belonged 
to the vicarage. INIargaret Sumnor 
was in it alone, in the half-reclining 
seat that had been made for her. Mrs. 
Sumnor rarely went to church in the 
morning: the younger daughters were 
of course at St. Jerome’s. 

I will go to London to-morrow,” 
decided Karl in his own mind that 
night. “ Could Smith be got awa}" 
from his post of espionage it might be 
Adam’s salvation.” And that’s what 
brought him taking the eleven o’clock 
train on jMonday morning. 

His hansom cab conveyed him to 
Plunkett and Plunkett's. That he 
must conduct this inquiry in the most 
cautiously delicate manner, he knew 
well ; or he might only make bad 
worse, and bring the hornet’s nest that 
lie was always dreading about his 
brother’s head. Once let Smith — if 
he were really Salter — suspect that in- 
quiries were being made about him, 
and he might in revenge denounce Sir 
Adam. 

Mr. f^lunkett, with whom Karl had 
always transacted business, was not in 
town. Mr. George Plunkett saw him, 


I but he was to Karl comparatively a 
I stranger. Even this seemed to fetter 
I him and make him feel more uneasily, 

I but without reason, the necessit}" of 
caution. In a somewhat hesitating 
way, he said that he had a reason for 
wishing to learn some particulars about 
a man who had cheated the community 
a year or two ago and had made his 
escape, one Philip Salter : he wanted 
to know whether he had been re- 
caught.; or, if not, where he was now 
supposed to be. IMr. George Plunkett 
immediately asked — not supposing 
there was any reason wh}^ he should 
not be told — lohy Sir Karl wished for 
the information. Were any of his 
friends sufferers and hoping to get 
back what the}’ had lost ? And Karl 
contrived, without any distinct asser- 
tion, to leave this impression on his 
mind. ]Mr. George Plunkett, however, 
coAild. give liim no information about 
Salter, beyond the fact — or rather im- 
pression, for he was not sure — that he 
had never been retaken. The matter 
was not one they had any interest in ; 
and he recommended Sir Karl to go to 
Scotland Yard. 

“ I will write a note of introduction 
for you to one of the head officers 
there. Sir Karl,” lie said. ^‘It will 
insure you attention.” 

Put Karl declined this. If I went 
to Scotland YTird,” he said, it would 
be as an unknown, private individual, 
not as Sir Karl Andinnian. I don’t 
much care to go to Scotland Y^ard.” 

Put why ? ” exclaimed Mr. George 
Plunkett. And then, all in a moment 
an idea flashed across him. He fan- 
cied that Sir Karl was shy of present- 
ing himself there as the brother of the 
unfortunate man who had stood his 
trial for murder. 

“ I have reasons for not wishing it 
to be known that I am stirring in 
this,” said Karl. Grave rea^ions. 
At Scotland Y^ard they might; recog- 
nize me, and jierhaps put qu^tions 
that at present I would rather not an- 
swer.” 

“ Look here, then,” said the lawyor. 

I will give you a letter to one of the' 
private men connected with the force 


IN THE SAME TRAIN. 


135 


— a detective, in fact. You can see 
him at his own house. He is one of 
the cleverest men tliey have, and will 
he sure to be able to tell you eveiy- 
thing you want to know. There’s not 
the least necessity for me to mention 
your name to him, and he’ll not seek 
to learn it. 1 shall say you are a 
client and friend of ours, and that will 
be sufficient.” 

“ Thank you, that will be best,” re- 
plied Karl. 

Mr. George Plunkett wrote the note 
there and then, and gave it to Karl. 
It was addressed to Mr. Burtenshaw, 
Euston Road. He took a cab and found 
the house — a middle-sized house with 
buff-colored blinds to the windows. A 
maid servant^came to the door, and her 
cap flew off as she opened it. 

Can I see Mr. Burtenshaw? ” ask- 
ed Sir Karl. 

Mr. Burtenshaw’s out, sir,’^ she 
replied, stooping to pick up the ^^cap’^ 
— a piece of bordered net the size of 
a five-shilling piece. ‘‘ He left word 
that he should be back at five o’clock.” 

If I were a detective officer, my ser- 
vants should wear caps on their heads,” 
thought Karl, as he turned away, and 
went to get some dinner. 

The church clocks were striking 
five when he was at the door again. 
Mr. Burtenshaw was at home ; and * 
Karl, declining to give his name, was 
shown to an upstairs room. A little 
man of middle age, with a sallow face 
and rather nice grey eyes, was standing 
by a table covered with papers. Karl 
bowed and handed him Mr. George 
Plunkett’s note. 

“Take a seat, sir, pray, while I read 
it,” said Mr. Burtenshaw, instinctively 
recognizing Karl for a gentleman and 
a noble one. And Karl sat down near 
the window. 

“ Very good ; I am at your service, 
sir,” said the detective, drawing a 
chair opposite KaiTs. “ What can I 
do for you ? ” 

With less hesitation than he had 
shown to Mr. George Plunkett, Karl 
frankl}^ stated why he had come, and 
what he wanted — some information 
about the crinimal, Philip Salter. 

:i^ 


you know much about the 
case ? ” continued Karl — for Mr. Burt- 
enshaw had made no immediate reply, 
but sat in silence. 

“ I believe I know all about it, sir. 1 
was wondering whether you had un- 
earthed him and were come to claim 
the reward.” 

“ The reward ! Is there an offered 
reward out against him ?” 

“ Five hundred pounds. It was of- 
fered after he had made his desperate 
escape, and it stands still.” 

“ He has not been retaken then?” 

“No, never. We have failed in his 
case, I am ashamed to say. What par- 
ticulars are the}', sir, that you wish to 
hear of him ? Those connected with 
his frauds and forgeries ? ” 

“ Not those : I have read of them in 
some of the old papers. I \vant to 
know where he is supposed to be ; and 
what is he like in person.” 

“ Our belief is that he is still in 
Great Britain ; strange though it may 
sound to you to hear me say it. Eng- 
land or Scotland. After that escapade, 
all the ports were so thoroughly guard- 
ed and watched, that I don’t think he 
could have escaped. We have a more 
especial reason, which I do not speak 
of, for suspecting that he is here still : 
at least that he was three months ago.” 

“ There are a hundred places in Eng- 
land where he may be hiding,” spoke 
Karl impulsively. “ Where he may 
be living as an ordinary individual, just 
like the individuals about him.” 

“ Exactly so.” 

“ Living openly, as may be said, but 
cautiously. Perhaps wearing a dis- 
guise.” 

“ No doubt of the disguise. False 
hair and whiskers, spectacles, and all 
that.” 

Karl remembered Mr. Smith’s green 
spectacles. His hair might not be his 
own : he wished he had taken better 
note of .it. 

“ And in person ? what is he like ? ” 

“ That I cannot tell you,” said Mr. 
Burtenshaw. “I never saw him. 
Some of us know him well. Grimley 
especially does.” 

“ Who is Grimley ? ” 


136 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


The man who let him escape. He 
has been under a cloud since with us. 
IMv wonder is that he was not dismiss- 
ed*.” 

^‘Then you don’t know at all what 
Salter is like ? ” 

No.” 

Are there no photographs ? ” 

I think not. I have seen none. 
Is it very essential your ascertaining 
this ? ” 

“ The most essential point of all. Is 
this Grimley to be got at? If I could 
see him to-day and get Salter’s descrip- 
tion from him, I should be more than 
glad.” 

Mr. Burtenshaw took some ivory 
tablets from his pocket and consulted 
them. “ I will send for Grimley here, 
sir. Will eight o’clock be*too late for 
you ? ” 

^‘Not at all,” replied Karl, thinking 
he could get away by the half past nine 
train. 

Mr. Burtenshaw escorted him to the 
head of the stairs, and watched him 
down, making his mental comments. 

‘‘ I wonder who he is? He looks too 
full of care for his years. But he 
knows Salter’s retreat as sure as a gun 
— or thinks he knows it. Won’t de- 
nounce him till he’s sure.” 

When Karl got back at eight o’clock, 
some disappointment was in store for 
him. Grimley was not there. The de- 
tective showed»the scrap of message re- 
turned to him, scribbled in pencil on 
f a loose bit of paper. 

Can’t get to you before eleven : 
might be a little later. Suppose it’s 
particular ? Got a matter on hand, and 
have to leave for the country at five in 
the morning.” 

‘‘ Will you see him at that late hour 
sir?” 

Karl considered. It would involve 
liis staying in town for the night, which 
he had not prepared for. But he was 
restlessly anxious to set the question at 
rest, and resolve upon it. 

He walked away through the busy 
London streets, seemingly more crowd- 
ed than usual that Monday evening, 
and sent a telegraphic message to his 
wife, saying he could not be home 


until the morrow. Then he went into 
the Charing Cross Hotel and engaged 
a bed. Before eleven he was back 
again at Mr. Burtenshaw’s. Grimley 
came in about a quarter past : a power- 
ful, tallish man with a rather jolly face, 
not dressed in his official clothes as a 
policeman, but in an ordinary suit of 
pepper-and-salt. 

You remember Philip Salter, Grim- 
ley ? ” begf\n the superior man at once, 
without any circumlocution or introduc- 
tion. 

I ought to, Mr. Burtenshaw.” 

‘^Just describe his person to this 
gentleman as accurately as you can.” 

He’s not dropped upon at last, is 
he ? ” returned the man, his whole face 
lighting up. 

^‘No. Don’t jump to conclusions, 
Grimley, but do as you are bid.” Up- 
on which rebuke Grimley turned to Sir 
Karl. 

‘‘ He was about as tall as I am, sir, 
and n'ot unlike me in shape : that is, 
strongh^ made, and very active. His 
real hair was dark brovvn, almost 
black — but goodness only knows what 
it’s changed into now.” 

“And his ffice?” questioned Karl. 
As 3"et the description tallied. 

“ Well, his face was a fresh-colored 
face, pleasant in look, and he was a 
*free, pleasant man to talk to you. His 
eyes — I can’t be sure, but I think they 
were dark brown : his eyebrows were 
thick and rather more arched than 
common. At that time his face was 
clean-shaved, whiskers and all ; dare- 
say it’s covered with hair now.” 

“ Was he gentlemanly in his look 
and manners?” 

Yes, sir, I should sa^' so. A rather 
bustling, business-kind of gentleman: 
I used to see him often before he turn- 
ed rogue. Leastways before it was 
known. You’d never have thought it 
of him: you’d have trusted him 
through thick and tliin.” 

Smith at Boxwood was not bustling 
in his manners; rather quiet. But, as 
Sir Karl’s thoughts ran, there was 
nothing there for him to be bustling 
over: and, besides, the trouble might 
have tamed him. In other particulars 


ON THE SAME TRAIN. 


137 


the description mij^ht have well served 
fur Smith himself, and Karl’s hopes 
rose. Grimley watched him keenly. 

Have jmn a photograph of him ? ” 
asked Karl. 

‘‘No, sir. ’Tvvas a great pity one 
was never took. I might have had 
it done at Liverpool that day ; but 
I tlioiight I’d got himself safe, and it 
didn’t occur to me. Ah, live and learn. 
I never was done before, and I’ve not 
been since.” 

“ You let him escape you in the 
trai n ? ” 

I let him : yes, sir, that’s the right 
w'ord ; as things turned out. ‘Don’t 
put the handcuffs on me, Grimley,’ 
said he, when we were about to start 
for the up-night train. ‘It’s not pleas- 
ant to be seen in that condition by the 
passengers who sit opposite you. I’ll 
not give jmu any trouble : you’ve got 
me, ^and I yield to it.’ ‘ On your 
honor, sir ? ’ says I. ‘ On my word 
and honor,’ says he. ‘ To tell you 
the truth, Grirnlej^, I’ve led such a life 
of fear and suspense latelj^ that I’m 
not sorry it’s ended.’ Well, sir, I put 
faith in him : you’ve heard me say it, 
Mr. Burtenshaw; and we took our 
seats in the carriage, me on one side, 
my mate, Knowles, on the other, and 
Salter, unfettered, between us. He 
had got a great thick fluffy grey wrap- 
per on, half coat, half cloak, with them 
wide hanging sleeves : we touched 
the sleeves on both sides, me and 
Knowles, with our arms and shoulders. 
There was one passenger besides; he 
sat opposite Knowles, and slept a good 
deal. Salter slept too — or seemed to 
sleep. Well, sir, we had got well on 
in our journey when from some cause 
the lamp went out. Soon after, the 
train shot into a tunnel, and we were 
in utter darkness. Salter, apparently, 
was sleeping fast. A glimmer of light 
arose when we were half way through 
it, from some opening I suppose, and I 
saw the opposite passenger, as I 
thought, leaning out at the far win- 
dow, the one next Knowles. The next 
minute there was a sound and a rush of 
air. Good heavens, he has fell out, I 
says to Knovyles : and he — I say he 


had been asleep too — rouses up and 
sa3"s, ‘Why, the door’s open.’ Sir, 
vv^hen we got out of the tunnel, the ravs 
of the bright lamp at its opening shone 
in : the opposite passenger was safe 
enough, his head nodding on' his breast, 
but my prisoner was gone.” 

Karl caught up his breath ; the tale 
excited him. “ How could it have 
been ? ” he exclaimed. 

“ The dickens knows. There was his 
thick rough coat again our arms, but his 
arms was out of it. How he had manacr- 
ed to slip ’em out and make no stir, and 
get off his seat to the door, I shall 
never guess. One, thing is certain — • 
he must have had a railwa^^ ke}’’ hid 
about him somewhere and opened the 
door with it : he must have been open- 
ing it when I thought it was the pas- 
senger leaning out.” 

“ What did you do ? ” 

“We could do nothing, sir, except 
shout to arouse the guard; we did 
enough of that, but he never heard us. 
When the next station was j:eached, a 
deal of good time had been lost. We 
told whac had occurred, and got the 
tunnel searched. That Salter would 
be found dead, everybody thought. 
Instead of that he was not found at all ; 
not a trace of him.” 

“He must have received injuries,” 
exclaimed Karl. 

“ I should say so,” returned Grirn- 
le3^ “Injuries that perhaps he car- 
ries from that day to this.” And Karl 
half started as he remembered the arm 
always in a sling. 

Just for a single moment the temp- 
tation to denounce this man came over 
him, in spite of his wish and will. 
Only for the moment : he remembered 
the danger to his brother. Besides, 
he would not have betrayed Smith for 
the world. 

“What age is Salter?” he suddenly 
asked. 

“ He must be about five-and-thirty 
now, sir. He was said to be three-and- 
thirt 37 ’ when it happened.” 

That was the first check. Smith 
must be quite fort3^ “Did Salter look 
older than his 3^ears?” he asked. 

“ No, I think not. Ah, he was a 


138 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


cunnin g fox/^ continued 'Mr. Grimley, 
grating his teetli at tlie remembrance. 

I've known since what it is to trust 
to the word and honor of a tliief. Can 
you tell me where to find him, sir?’’ 
lie suddenly cried after a pause. “ To 
retake that man would be the most 
satisfactory piece of work I’ve got left 
to me in life.” ' 

‘•No, I cannot,” replied Karl, grave- 
ly. So the interview came to an end 
without much result ; and Karl de- 
jiarted for his hotel : both Grimle3^ and 
]Mr. Hurtenshaw remaining firmly per- 
suaded in their own minds that this 
unknown gentleman, who did not give 
his name, possessed some clue or other 
to the criminal, Salter. 

We must return for a few minutes to 
Foxwood Court. Miss Blake got back 
bv an earl}" afternoon train as she had 
intended, and found some visitors with 
Lady Andinnian. It was old General 
Lloyd from Basham with two of his 
daughters. The}^ were asking her to 
take luncheon with them on the mor- 
row and accompaii}" them afterwards to 
the flower-show that was to be held at 
the Guildhall. Sir Karl and Miss 
Blake were included in the invitation. 
Luc}^ promised : she seemed worn and 
weary with her solitude, and she loved 
flowers greatl}". For Sir Karl she said 
slie could not answer : he was in Lon- 
don for the day : but thought it likely 
lie would be able to accompany her. 
IMiss Blake left it an open question: 
St. Jerome’s was paramount just now, 
and to-morrow was one of its festival- 
days. 

They dined alone, those two, Sir 
Karl not having returned for it. ‘^Lid 
\’ou know he was going to London ? ” 
asked jMiss Blake. 

“ \ es,” said Luc}^ ; he told me 
ihis morning. He had business with 
Fiiinkett and Plunkett.” Miss Blake 
suddenly pushed her hair from her 
forehead as if it troubled her, and bit 
her li[>s to enforce them to silence. 

After dinner IMiss Blake went out. 
Tom Pepp, who was appointed bell- 
ringer to St. Jerome’s, in his intervals 
of work, had played truant at Matins 
in the morning and wanted looking 


up ; so she went to do it. This bell 
was a new feature at St. Jerome’s, and 
caused much talk. It was hung over 
the entrance door, communicating with 
a stout string inside : which string Tom 
Pepp had to pull — to his intense de- 
light. 

AYhen IMiss Blake got back, Lucy 
was still alone. The evening passed 
on, and Sir Karl did not come. Soon 
after nine o’clock a telegraphic dispatch 
arrived from him, addressed to Lady 
Andin nian. 

I cannot get my business done to- 
night, and must sleep in town. Shall 
be home to-morrow.” 

“ I wonder what business it is that 
is detaining him ? ” spoke Luc}", me- 
chanically, her thoughts wandering to 
her absent husband. 

Theresa Blake was trembling to her 
fingers’ ends. She flung down the dis- 
patch after reading it, and flung after 
it a contemptuous word, quite startling 
Lady Andinnian. 

I’ll tell you, Lucy ; I’ll tell you 
because you ought to know it,” she 
cried, scattering prudence to the winds 
in her righteous indignation ; scatter- 
ing even ail consideration touching 
Jane Shore, the pillory, the white 
sheet, and the lighted taper. “ The 
plea of business is good to assume. 
Sir Karl did not go to London alone 
this morning. That girl was with 
him.” 

“What girl ? ” faltered Luc}". 

She at the Maze. She with the 
angel face.” 

Luc}" slightly shivered. For a mo- 
ment she made no comment. Her 
face turned ghastly. 

“ Oh, Lucy, my dear, forgive me ! ” 
cried JMiss Blake. “ Perhaps I have 
been wrong to tell you ; but I cannot 
bear that 3"ou should be so deceived. 
I went up to London myself this 
morning after some embroideiy silks 
that I could not get at Basham. Sir 
Karl and she were in the same train. 
I saw them get out together at the 
terminus.” 

It was cruel to hear and to have to 
bear; but Lucy said never a woid. 
Her tell-tale face had betr.iiyed her 


ONLY ONE FLY AT THE STATION. 


139 


emotion, but slie would not let any- 
thin.ix else betray it. 

^•Perliaps botli happened to have 
business in London,” slie quietly said, 
when she could trust her voice to be 
steady. “ I am sure Karl went up to 
go to Plunkett and Plunkett’s.” 

And not another allusion did she 
make to it. Pin^’ing for Hewitt, she 
calmly told him his master would not 
be home: and after that talked cheer- 
fullv- to Theresa until the evening was 
over. Miss Blake wondered at her. 

Calm before her and the world. 
But when she got upstairs and was 
alone in her chamber, then all the 
pent-up anguish broke forth. Her 
heart seemed breaking; her sense of 
wrong well-nigh over-mastered her. 

^‘And it was only on Saturday he 
vowed to me the sin was all of the 
past ! ” she cried. And she lay in tor- 
ment through the live-long summer’s 
night. 


. CHAPTEPv XX. 

ONLY OXE FLY AT THE STATTOX. 

The railway station at Basham 
seemed to be never free from bustle. 
Besides pertaining to Basham proper, 
it was the junction for other places. 
Various lines crossed each other; 
empty carriages and trolleys of coal 
stood near ; porters and others were 
always running about. 

Four o’clock on the Tuesday after- 
noon, and the train momentarily ex- 
pected in from London. A few people 
had collected on the platform : waiting 
for friends who were coming by it, or 
else intending to go on by it them- 
selves. Amidst them was a young 
and lovely lady, who attracted some 
attention. Strangers wondered who 
slie was : one or two knew her for the 
lady of Fox wood Court, wife of Sir 
Karl Andinnian. 

There had been a flower-show at 
Basham that day : and Lady Andin- 
nian, as may be remembered, had 
promised to attend it with the family 
of General Lloyd, taking luncheon 


with them first. But when the morn- 
ing came, she heartil}" wished she had 
not made' the engagement. Sir Karl 
had not returned to accompany her. 
Miss Blake declared that she could not 
spare the time for it : for it happened 
to be a Saint’s Day, and services pre- 
vailed at St. Jerome’s. Another check 
arose : news was brought in from the 
coachman that one of the horses had 
been slightly hurt in shoeing, and the 
carriage could not be used that day. 
Upon that, Lady Andinnian said she 
must go by the train : for it would 
never have occurred to her to break her 
promise. 

I think, Tlieresa, you might man- 
age to go with me,” she said. 

Miss Blake, calculating her hours, 
found she had two or three to spare in 
the middle of the day, and agreed ; 
provided she might be allowed to leave 
Mrs. Lloyd’s when luncheon was over 
and not be expected to go to the town- 
hall. “You will only be alone in re- 
turning for just the few minutes that 
yon are in the train, Lucy,” she said. 
“ The Lloyds will see you into it, a/nd 
Hewitt can have a fly waiting for you 
at Foxwood Station.” This pro- 
gramme had been carried out: and 
here vv^as Lucy waiting for the four 
o’clock train at Basham, surrounded 
by General Lloyd and part of his fam- 
ily. 

It came steaming slowly in. Adieux 
were interchanged, and Lucy was put 
into what is called the ladies’ car- 
riage. Only one lady was in it besides 
herself; some one traveling from Lon- 
don. They looked at each other with 
some curiosity, sitting face to face. It 
was but natural; both were young, 
both were beautiful. 

“ What lovely hair ! and what 
charming blue eyes ! and what a bright, 
delicate complexion!” thought Lucy. 
“ I wonder who she is.” 

“ I have never in all m}^ life seen so 
sweet a face ! ” thought the other trav^- 
eler. “ Her eyes are beautiful : and 
there’s a loving sadness in them. And 
what a handsome dress I — what style 
altogether ! ” 

Lucy’s dress was a rich silk, pearl 


340 


WITHIN Tlip MAZE. 




gray in color ; her bonnet wliite ; her 
small parasol was gray, 'Covered with 
lace, its handle of carved ivory. She 
loo];ed not unlike a bride. Tlie otlier 
wore black silk, a straw bonnet, and 
black lace veil, thickly studded with 
sj)ots; wliich veil she had put back as 
if for air, just after quitting Basham ; 
and she had with her several small 
parcels. Why or wherefore neither of 
them knew, but each felt instinctively 
attracted by the appearance of the 
other. 

They were nearing Foxwood station 
— it was but about eight minutes^ dis- 
tance from Basham — when Lucy, in 
moving her position, happened to throw 
down a reticule bag which had lain be- 
side her. Both of them stooped to pick 
it up. 

Oh, I beg your pardon ! I ouglit 
to have moved it when you got in,’’ 
said the stranger, placing it amidst her 
parcels. And Lucj^, on her part, beg- 
ged pardon for having thrown it down. 

It served to break the ice of reserve : 
and for the next remaining minute or 
two they talked together. By the 
stranger beginning to gather together 
her parcels, Lucy saw she was prepar- 
ing to get out at Foxwood. 

Are you about to make a stay in 
this neighborhood?” she asked. 

For the present.” 

It is a very charmfng spot. We 
hear the nightingales every evening.” 

You are staying in it too, then ? ” 
“ Yes. It is my home.” 

The train came to a standstill and 
the}' got out. Foxwood station, after 
the manner of some other small rural 
stations, had its few buildings on one 
side only: the other was open to the 
liigh road, and to the iields beyond. In 
this road, drawn up close to the station 
was a waiting fly, its door already o[)en. 
The stranger carrying some of her par- 
cels went straight up to it, supposing 
it was there for hire. 

“ l-)eg [)ardon, ma’am,” said the dri- 
ver, “ this here fly’s engaged.” 

She seemed vexed, disappointed : 
and looked up at him. “ Are you 
sure?” she asked. Lucy was stand- 
ing close by and heard. 


“ It’s brought here, ma’am, for the 
Lady Audi n Ilian. 

“ For whom ? ” she cried, her voice 
turning to sharpness with its haste; 
her face, through her veil, changing to 
a ghastly white. 

The driver stared at her : he thought 
it was all temper. Lucy looked too, 
unable to understand, and slightly col- 
ored. 

“ For whom did you say the fly was 
brought ? ” the lady repeated. 

“ For Lady Andinnian of Foxwood 
Court.” 

“ Oh I — I misunderstood,” she said, 
her voice dropping, her look becoming 
suddenl}^ timid as a hare’s : and in 
turning away with a sudden movement, 
she found herself face to face with 
Lucy. At that same moment, a tall 
footman, with a powdered head — who 
had strayed away in search of amuse- 
ment and had strayed a little too far — • 
came bustling up. 

“ This is your fly, my lady.” 

By which the stranger knew that 
the elegant girl she had traveled with 
and whose sweet face was then close 
to her own, was the young Lady Andin- 
nian. Her own lace flushed again. 

“ I — I beg your pardon,” she said, 
“I did not know you were Sir Karl 
Andinnian’s wife. The fly, I thought, 
was only there for hire.” 

Before Lucy could make any answer, 
she had disappeared from the spot, and 
was giving some of her parcels to a 
porter. Lucy followed. 

“ Can I oifer to set 3^11 down any- 
where ? The fly is certainly waiting 
for me, but — there is plenty of room.” 

“ Oh thank you, no. You are very 
tired: but — no ! 1 can walk quite 
well. I am obliged to 3^0 all the 
same.” 

The refusal was spoken ver}^ em- 
phaticall}'; especiall}^ the last Ko. 
Without turning again, she walked 
rapidly away from the station, the por- 
ter carrying her parcels. 

“ I wonder who she is ? ” murmured 
Lucy aloud, looking back as she was 
about to enter the fly, her powdered 
servant standing to bow her in. For 
she saw that there was no luggage, 


♦ 


ONLY ONE* FLY AT THE STATION. 


141 


save those small parcels, and was feel- 
ing somewhat puzzled. 

It is Mrs. Grey, my lady : she 
who lives at the Maze/^ 

Had the footman, Giles, said it was 
an inhabitant of the world of spirits, 
Lucy would not liave felt more painful- 
ly and disagreeably startled. She ! 
And she, Luc}^ had sat with her in the 
same carriage and talked to her on 
j)leasant terms of equality ! She, Mrs. 
Gre)* ! Well, Theresa was right: the 
face was fit for an angePs. 

Why, my dear Lady Andinnian, 
how pale you look. IPs the heat, I 
suppose.^’ 

Lucy, half bewildered, her senses 
seeming to have gone she knew not 
whither, found herself shaking hands 
*with Miss Patchett : an elderly and 
eccentric lady who lived midway 
between the station and the village of 
Fox wood. Lucy mechanically asked 
her if she had come in -the train. 

‘^Yes/^ answered Miss Patchett. 

I’ve been to London to engage a 
housemaid. And I am tired to death, 
dear, and the London streets were 
like fire. I wish I was at home with- 
out having to walk there.” 

Let the take you.” 

It’s hardly worth while, my dear: 
it’s not far. And it would be taking 
you out of your way.” 

“Not many yards out of it. Step 
in, Miss Patch eU.’’ 

The old lady stepped in, Lucy fol- 
lowing her, Giles taking his place by 
the driver. Miss Patchett was set 
down at her house, and then the 
liorse’s head was turned around in the 
direction of Foxwood Court. The old 
lady had talked incessantly ; Lucy had 
comprehended nothing. St. Jerome’s 
absurd little bell was being swaj^ed and 
tinkled by Tom Pepp, but Lucy had 
not given it a second glance, although 
it was the first time she had had the 
gratification of seeing and hearing it. 

“ I could almost have died rather 
than it should have happened : ” she 
thought, her face burning now at the 
recollection of the encounter with Mrs. 
Grey, so mortifying to every good feel- 
ing within her. “How white she 


turned — how sharply she spolre — when 
they told her the fly was there for 
Lady Andinnian ! And to think that I 
should have offered to set her down ! 
To think it! Perhaps those parcels 
contained things that Karl bought 
for her in London.” 

The fl}^, bowling on, was nearing the 
Maze gate. Lucy’s fascinated gaze 
was, in spite of herself drawn to it. A 
middle-aged woman servant had opened 
it and was receiving the parcels from 
the porter. Mrs. Grey had her purse 
out, paying him. As she put the coin 
into his hand, she paused to look at 
Lady Andinnian. It was not a rude 
look, but one that seemed full of eager 
interest. Lucy turned her eyes the 
other way, and caught a full view of 
Mr. Smith, the agent. He was stretch- 
ed out at one of his sitting-room win- 
dows, surveying the scene with undis- 
guised curiosity. Lucy sank into the 
darkest corner of the fly, and flung 
her hands over her burning face. 

“'Was any position in the world 
ever so painful as mine?” she cried 
with a rising sob. “ How shall I live 
on, and bear it ? ” 

The fly clattered in by the lodge 
gate and drew up at the house. Hew’- 
itt appeared at tlie door, and Giles 
stood for his mistress to alight. 

“ Has Sir Karl returned, Hewitt ? ” 
questioned Lucy. 

“ Not yet, my lady.” 

She stood for a moment in thought, 
then gave orders for the fly to wait, 
and went indoors. An idea had arisen 
that if she could get no comfort whis- 
pered to her, she should almost go out 
of her mind. Her aching heart was 
yearning for it. 

“ Hewitt I shall go and see poor 
Miss Sum nor. I should like to take her 
a little basket of strawberries and a few 
of Maclean’s best flowers. Will you 
see to it for me, and put them in the 
fly?” 

She ran up stairs. She put off her 
gala robes alone, and came down in one 
of her cool muslins and a straw bonnet as 
plain as Mrs. Grey’s. Hewitt had 
placed the basket of strawberries — 
some of the large pine apple beau- 


142 


WITHIN THE MA'ZE. 


ties, tliat the Court was famous for — 
iu the tiy, a slieet of tissue paper upon 
tliem, and some lovel}^ hot-liouse flow- 
ers on the paper. Lucy got in ; told 
tlie footman she should not require his 
attendance ; and was driven away to 
the vicarage. 

Am I to wait for you, my lady? ’’ 
asked the driver, as he set her down 
with her basket of fruit and flowers. 

No, thank you ; I shall walk 
home.’’ 

Margaret was lying alone as usual, 
her face this afternoon a sad one. Lucy 
presented her little offering; and when 
the poor lonely invalid saw the tempt- 
ing, luscious fruit, smelt the sweet per- 
fume of the gorgeous flowers, the tears 
came into her e^’es. 

You have brought all this to 
brighten me, Luc3^ How good you 
are ! I have had something to try me 
to-day, and was in one of my saddest 
moods.” 

The tears and the admission tried 
Lucy sorely. Just a moment she 
struggled with herself for composure, 
and then gave way. Bursting into a 
flood of grief, she knelt down and hid 
her wet face on Margaret’s bosom. 

Oh Margaret, Margaret, you can- 
not have as much to try you as I 
have ! ” she cried out in her pain. 

My life is one long path of sorrow; 
my heart is breaking. Can’t you say 
a word to comfort me?” 

Margaret Sumnor, forgetting as by 
magic all sense of her own trouble, fell 
to coQ]fort her. She touched her with 
lier gentle caressing hand; she whis- 
pered soothing words, as one whispers 
to a child in pain : and Lucy’s sobs ex- 
hausted themselves. 

“ dear Lucy, before I attempt to 
say anything, I must ask you a ques- 
tion. Can you tell me the nature of 
your sorrow ? ” 

But Lucy made no reply. 

I see. It .is what you cannot 
speak of.” 

^Ht is what I can never speak of to 
you* or to any one, Margaret. But oh, 
it is hard to bear.” 

‘Ht seems so to you, I am sure, 
whatever it may be. But in the very 


darkest trial and sorrow there is com- 
fort to be found.” 

^‘Not for me,” impetuously answer- 
ed Lucy. ‘‘I think God has forgotten 

me.” 

Lucy, hush ! You know better. 
The darkest cloud ev^er o’ershadowing 
the earth, covers a bright sky. JFe see 
only the cloud, but the brightness is 
behind it ; in time it will surely sliow 
itself and the cloud will have rollevl 
away. God is above all. Only put 
your trust in Him.” 

Lucy was silent. There are times 
when the heart is so depressed that it 
admits not of comfort ; when even 
sympathy cannot touch it. She bent 
her face in her hands and thought. 
Look out where she would there seem- 
ed no refuge for her in the wide worlil. 
Her duty and the ills of life laid upon 
her seemed to be clashing. jMargaret 
had preached to her of patiently bear- 
ing, of resignation to heaven’s will, of 
striving to live on, silently hoping, and 
returning good for evil. But there 
were moments when the opposite course 
looked very sweet, and this moment 
was one. But one thought alwa \’3 
held her back when this retaliation, 
this revenge appeared most tem[)ting 
— should slie not repent of it in the fu- 
ture ? 

‘‘Lucy, my dear,” broke in the inva- 
lid’s voice, always so plaintive, “ I do 
not pretend to fathom this trouble of 
3murs. It is beyond me. I can only^ 
think it must be some difference be- 
tween you and ^mur husband ” 

“ And if it were ? ” interrupted 
Luc}", recklessly. 

“ If it were ! Why, then, I should 
say to you above all things, bear. You 
do not know, \’ou cannot possess any 
idea of the bitter life of a woman at 
real issue with her husband. I know 
a lady — but she does not live in these 
parts, and \mu have never heard of her 
— who separated from her husbaml. 
She and my own mother were at school 
together, and she married young, and 
it was thought, happily. After a time 
she grew jealous of her husband ; she 
had cause for it: he was altogether a 
gay, careless man, fond of show and 


ONLY ONE FLY AT THE STATION. 


143 


•pleasure. For some years slie bore a 
great deal in silence, the world knowing 
nothing of things being wrong between 
them. Papa could tell you more about 
this than I : I was but a little child. 
Now he and my mother, the only 
friends who were in her confidence, 
urged her to go on bearing with what 
patience she might, and trusting to 
God to set wrong things right. For a 
long while she listened to them ; but 
there came a time when she allowed 
exasperation to get the better of her ; 
and the world was astonished by hear- 
ing that she and her husband had 
agreed to separate. Ah Luct, it was 
then that her life of real anguish set 
in. Just at first, for a few weeks or 
so, perhaps months, she was borne up 
by the excitement of the thing, by the 
noise made in the world, by the grati- 
fication of taking, revenge upon her 
husband — by I know not what. But 
as the long months and the years w^ent 
on, and all excitement, I may almost 
say all interest in life had foded, she 
then saw what she had done.v She was 
a solitary woman condemned to an un- 
loved and solitary existence, and she re- 
pented her act with the whole force of 
lier bitter and lonely beaj:fJ Better, 
Lucy, that she had exercised patience 
and trusted in God ; better for her own 
happiness.’’ 

‘‘And what of her now?” cried 
Lucy, eagerly*. 

“ Nothing, Nothing but wdiat I 
tell you. She lives away her solitary 
years, not a day of them passing but 
she wishes to heaven that one fatal act 
of hers could be recalled — the severing 
herself from her husband. 

And he, IMargaret? ” 

‘‘ He ? For aught I know to the 
contrarj^, he has been as happy since 
as he was before ; perhaps, in his com- 
plete freedom, more so. She thought, 
poor woman, to work out her revenge 
upon him ; instead of thaL it was on 
lierself she worked it out.Q Men and 
women are different. A separated man 
— say a divorced man if you like — can 
go abroad, here, there, and everywhere, 
and enjoy life without hindrance, and 
take his pleasure at will 5 but a woman, 


if she be a right-minded woman, must 
stay in her home-shell, and eat her 
heart away.^/ 

Lucy Andinnian sighed. It was no 
doubt all too true. 

“ I have related this for your benefit, 
Lucy. jMy dear little friend, at all 
costs, sta^ ivit/i youy^ hitsband.^^ 

“I should never think of leaving 
him for good as that other poor woman 
did,” sobbed Lucj". I should be dead 
of grief in a year.” 

‘‘ True. Whatever your cross may 
be, my dear — and I cannot doubt that 
it is a very sharp and heavy one — take 
it up as bravely as you can, and bear 
it. <;;No cross, no crown.^ 

Some of the school clnldren came in 
for a lesson in fine work — stitching and 
gathering — and Lady Andinnian took 
her departure. She had not gained 
much comfort Js^she was just as misera- 
ble as it was possible to be. J 

The church bell was going for the 
five o’clock evening service. Since the 
advent of St. Jerome’s Mr. Sumnor 
had opened his church again for daily 
service, morning and evening. This, 
however, was a saints’ day. A feeling 
came over poor Lucy that she should 
like to sob out her heart in praj’er to 
God, and she slipped in. Not going 
down the aisle to their own conspicu- 
ous pew, but into an old-fashioned 
square, obscure thing near the door, 
that was filled on Sundays with the 
poor, and hidden behind a pillar. 
There unseen, unsuspected, she^ lay on 
the floor, and lifted up her heart on 
high, sobbing silent sobs of agon}’, bit- 
ter tears raining from her eyes f ask- 
ing God to hear and help her; to'help 
her to bear. J 

She sat out the service and grew 
composed enough to join in it. The 
pillar hid her from the clergyman’s 
view ; nobody noticed that she was 
there. So far as she could see, there 
was not above half-a-dozen people in 
the church. In going out, Air. Sum- 
nor and Mr. Aloore’s sister. Aunt Di- 
ana, come up to join her. 

“ I did not know you were in church, 
Lady Andinnian,” said the clergytnan. 

‘‘ The bell was going when I left 


144 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


your house : I had been to see Marga- 
ret : so I went in/’ slie replied. 
‘‘But what a very small congrega- 
tion ! ” 

“ People don’t care to attend on 
week-davs, and that’s the truth,” put 
in j\[iss i\roore — a middle-aged, stout 
lady, with her brown hair cut short 
ami a huge flapping hat on. “ And 
the young folks they are all off to that 
blessed St. Jerome’s. IMy nieces are 
gone there; I know it; and so are 
your two daughters, Mr. Sumnor. 
]\[ore shame for them !” 

“Ay,” sighed IMr. Sumnor, whose 
Iiair and face were alike gray, and his 
look as sad as his tone. Their run- 
ning to St. Jerome’s as they do is 
nothiiig less, in my eyes, than a scan- 
dal. I don’t know what is to be the 
end of it all.” 

“End of it all,” echoed Aunt Di- 
ana, in her strong-minded voice. 
“ AVhv, the end will be folh% or per- 
haps worse — Rome, or a convent, or 
something of that kind. I truly be- 
lieve, Mr. Sumnor, that heaven above 
was never so mocked before since the 
world began, as it is now by this sem- 
blamte of zeal in boys and girls for re- 
ligious services and worship. The true 
worship of a Christian, awakened to 
his state of sin and to the need he has 
of God’s forgiveness and care, of 
Christ’s love, is to be revered — but 
this is totally different from that busi- 
ness at^ St: Jerome’s. Thafs hollow 
at the core ; born of young men’s and 
and young girls’ vanity. Does all this 
flocking thither come of religion, think 
you Not it.” 

“Indeed no,” said Mr. Sumnor. 

“ And therefore I say it is a mockery 
of true religion, and must be a sin in 
the sight of heaven. They run after 
Mr. Cartacomb, nothing else. I went 
to St. Jerome’s mvself this morning; 
not to say my prayers ; just to watch 
my nie(;es and see what was going on. 
They had all sorts of ceremonies and 
foolish folly: five of the girls had been 
there beforehand confessing to the 
Reverend Guy : and there he was 
then, performing the service and turn- 
ing up the tails of his eyes.” 


“ Oh ^liss Diana.” involuntarily ex- 
claimed Luc 3’, hardly knowing wheth- 
er to laugh or reprove. 

“ It is true. Lady Andinnian. Why 
does he go through his service with all 
that affectation ? Of course the girls 
like it: but they are little fools, all of 
them ; they’d think anything right 
that was done b}’’ him. I fancy the 
young man has some good in him ; I 
acknowledge it; but he is eaten up 
with vanity, and lives in the worship 
of these girls. xVh well, it’s to be 
hoped thej will all, priest and children, 
come to their senses sometime.” 

She turned into her home, after 
wishing them good-bye. Lucy stayed 
to shake hands with the clergyman. . 

“ Miss Diana is given to expressing 
herself strongly, but she is right in the 
main,” he said. “St. Jerome’s is giv- 
ing me a great deal of trouble and sor- 
row just now, in more ways than one. 
But we have all something to bear,’’ 
he added after a pause. “All. Some- 
times I think that the more painful it 
is, the more God is caring for us. 
Fare you well, my dear young lady. 
Give my kind regards to Sir Karl.” 

Lucy walked homewards, a feeling 
of peace insensibly diffusing itself over 
her affected soul. The clergyman’s 
words had touched her! 

Verses of Holy Writ and thoughts 
connected with tliem kept rising in her 
mind like messages of consolation. In 
her misery, she felt how very weak and 
weary she was ; that there was nothing 
for her; but to resign herself to heav- 
en’s protecting hand as a helpless child. 
The cry for it broke out involuntarily 
from her lips. 

“ Lord I am oppressed. Undertake 
for me ! ” 


CHAPTER XXL 

HARD TO BEAR. 

Dinner was waiting when Lady 
Andinnian entered, and the lirsf person 
she saw was her husband. He met 
her in the hall with outstretched 
hands. 


HARD TO BEAR. 


145 


^0)icl tliink T was lost, Liioy?’’ 

She suffered her hand to touch liis ; 
for Hewitt and tlie tall footman, Giles, 
were standinor in the hall, looking on. 
Sir Karl saw how red her eyes were. 

I meant to have returned by an 
earlier train ; bat as I had the day be- 
^ fore me I took the opportunity of see- 
ing atYer a few things I wished to 
purchase — and the time slipped on,’’ 
said Karl. ^‘How have you been, 
Lucy ? ” 

“ Oh, quite well thank you.” 

‘‘Whom do you think I traveled 
down with, Lucy. My old friend. 
Lamprey. He has some business at 
Basham ; so I have brought him home 
to dinner. Make haste,” he added 
as she turned to the staircase : “ I 
think it must be ready.” 

“ I will be down directly,” she an- 
swered^ 

Aglae was waiting; and in five min- 
utes Lucy was down again, dressed. 
Captain Lampre}" was introduced to her 
— for it hap[)ened that they had not 
been personally acquainted when at 
Winchester — and gave i)er his arm in- 
to the dining room. Miss Blake fell 
to Karl. 

But in Lucy’s heart sickness, she 
could scarcely be cheerful. Her tell- 
tale eyes were heavy too ; there arose 
ever and anon one of those rising sobs 
of the breath that speak most unmis- 
takably of hidden grief: and Captain 
Lam|)rey felt somewhat disappointed 
in Lady Andinnian. He remembered I 
liow beautiful Lucy Cleeves used to 
be : he luul heard of the renewed gaiety 
of • heart her marriage with Karl 
brouglit her : but he saw only a sad 
woman, who was evidently nottoohap- 
])y, and whose beauty was marred by 
sadness and paleness. Karl was more 
cheerful than usual ; and Miss Blake 
seemed not to tire of inquiring after 
AVinchester and its people. But in the 
ir.idstof all his observations. Captain 
Lamprey never suspected that there 
was any thing but perfect cordiality 
between Sir Karl and his wife. And 
the dinner came to an end. 

After coffee. Captain Lamprey set 
off to walk to Basham. Karl went out 

y 


I with him, to put him in the right road 
and accompan}^ him part of it. Miss 
Blake had gone to Vespers. Lucy was 
alone. 

It seemed to her dull everywliere ; 
especially dull indoors, and she stepped 
out to the lawn ; turning back almost 
immediately to get a shawl for her 
shoulders, in obedience to an injunc- 
tion of her husband’s. On the Sunday 
evening when he found her sitting out 
of doors without one, he had fetched 
one at once, and begged her not to be 
imprudent or to forget her ague- 
fever of the previous year. She remem- 
bered this now and went back for her 
shawl. Some wives, living in estrange- 
ment from their husbands, might have 
studiously set his commands at naughty 
and have wished ague or what not, 
rather than obey them. Not so Lucy 
Andinnian. She was meek and gentle 
by nature. Moreover, in spite of the 
ill-blood he had caused to rise up be- 
tween them, in spite of her sense of 
wrong and insult, she loved him in her 
heart, and could not help it, as truly as 
ever. Visions would steal over her in un- 
guarded moments, of the present trouble 
being hushed to rest; of all that was 
amiss being done aw^ay with, and she 
and he reconciled and at peace again. 
Unhappily for the demands of pride, 
of self-assertion, Lucy w^as by no means 
one of your high-spirited and strong- 
minded heroines, wdio rashly overlook 
all interests to indulge in malice and 
revenge. 

She folded the shawl about her — one 
of substantial white silk crape — as care- 
fully as Karl could have folded it; and 
she stayed, she knew not how long, in 
the open air. Pacing the lawn; sit- 
ting amidst the flowers, standing under 
the shade of the trees; always in deep 
thought. The nightingale sang, and 
the tears gathered in her eyes as she 
listened to the melodious strain. “What 
a sweet place this would be to live in,’’ 
thought Lucy, “ if only we could but 
have peace with it ! ” 

But the nightingale’s song and the 
oppressive thoughts, together with the 
falling dusk, brought back all her low 
spirits again. “ There will never be 


146 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


any more happiness for me in tin's 
world, never, never,’’ she sighed, and 
the tears were dropping as she went up 
to her own room. 

Hy-and-bv Sir Karl returned. Not 
seeing his wife down stairs, he went up 
and knocked at the door of her little 
sitting-room. He had not had an op- 
portunity of speaking a private word 
to her since his return. There came 
no answer and he entered. The room 
was empty; but as he stood for a mo- 
ment in the deep silence of twilight, 
the sound of sobs in Lucy’s bed-cham- 
ber smote his ear. He knocked at it. 

Lucy ! ” . 

She had indeed once more given 
way to all the abandonment of grief. 
Which was very foolish : but perhar>s 
its indulgence brought a kind of relief, 
and in truth her spirit was very sore. 
The knock startled her: but she had 
not heard the call. 

‘‘Who’s there?” she asked, step- 
ping to the door and stifling her sobs 
as she best could. 

“ I want to speak to you, Lucy.” 

She dried her eyes, and unlocked 
the door, and made believe to be calm- 
ly indifferent, as she stepped into the 
sitting-room. 

“ I beg your pardon. Sir Karl. I 
was busy and did no^ hear jmu.” 

“You are looking very ill, Lucy,” he 
said with grieved concern. “ I thought 
so when I flrst saw you this aft('rnoon. 
Then as now your eyes were red with 
weeping.” 

She strove for calmness; she prayed 
for it. Her determination had been 
taken to bury in haughty silence all 
she had learnt of the London journey, 
its despicable conceit, and insult to 
her. She could not have spoken of it ; 
no, not even to reproach him and to 
bring his shame home to him : it would 
have inflicted too much humiliation on 
her sensitive si)irit. 

“ I have had rather a tiring day,” 
she answered, leaning sideways against 
the open window. “ There was the 
‘'elaborate luiutheon with General and 
IVIis. Lloyd, and the flower-show after- 
wards. The weather was very warm 
and oppressive.” 


“ That may account for your being 
tired and not looking well : but not for 
the weeping, Lucy. As I stood here 
waiting for you to answer my knock, I 
heard your sobs.” 

“ Yes,” she said, rather faintl}^, feel- 
ing how useless it would be to deny 
that there had been some weeping. 

“ I get a little low spirited sometimes 
in the evening.” 

“ But why ? wherefore ? ” 

“ Is life so pleasant with us just now 
that I can always be gay, think you ?” 
she retorted after a pause, and her 
voice took a tone of resentment. 

“ But the unpleasantness is of your 
doing ; not mine. You knoia it, Lucy.” 

“Then — then it is right that I, 
should be the one to suffer,” was her 
impatient answer — for her words were 
trying her almost beyond endurance. 

“ Let it go so : I do not wish to speak 
of it further.” 

Karl was standing at the op[)osite 
corner of the window, facing lier, his 
arms folded. On his part he was be- 
ginning to be a little out of patience 
too, with what he deemed her unrea- 
sonable caprice. For a few moments 
thdre was silence. 

“ What I want to tell you is this, 
Lucy. My visit to London was con- 
nected with that wish that 3 mu seem 
to have so much at heart — though I 
cannot exactly understand wh\" — ” 

“I have no wish at heart,” she re- 
sentfully interrupted. 

“ Nay, but hear me. The wish 
expressed to me 1 think you must have 
at heart, since on its fullilment you say 
depends our reconciliation. I speak 
of the removal of — of the tenants of the 
Maze,” he added, half breaking down 
in his sensitive hesitation. “ Since my 
conversation with you on Saturdav, 
during which, if you remember, this 
stipulation of yours was made, tiiere 
occurred by what T call a singular 
chance, only that I do not believe an^^- 
thing is chance that affects our vital 
interests in this life — there occurred to 
me a slight circumstance by which I 
thought I saw a possibility" of carrying 
out your wish — ” 

“ You said then it was your wish 


HARD TO BEAR. 




a]f=!o,” again intorrupted Lucy. Or 
affected to my it.’’ 

“ Your wish for it cannot be as hearty 
as mine,” lie impulsively answered. I 
pray for it night and day.” 

And Lucy could not well mistake 
the emotional earnestness. She believed 
him there. 

“ Well, I thought I saw a chance of 
it,” he resumed, and I went to get 
some information, that I fancied might 
help me, from Plunkett and Plun- 
kett — ” 

Ts it fit that you should give these 
details to me?” she haughtily inter- 
posed. 

I wish jmu to understand that I 
am doing my best. Plunkett and 
Plunkett could not give me the informa- 
tion : but they directetl me to some 
people where I might obtain it. To 
enable me to see one of these people I 
had to stay in town all night; and that 
was the reason of my not getting 
home.” 

Lucy had taken a spra}- of jessamine 
from her waist-band, and stood pulling 
it to pieces as she listened with an air 
of indifference. 

‘‘ 1 do not really know more than I 
did before I went to town, as to whether 
or no the jMaze can be left empty,” he 
went on. Put I have a good hope 
of it. I think I may be able to accom- 
j)lish it, though perhaps not quite im- 
mediateljn It may take time.” 

“ As you please, of course,” answered 
Lucy coldl 3 n “ It is nothing to me.” 

Karl Andinnian had one of the 
sweetest tempers in the world, and cir- 
cumstances had taught him patience 
and endurance. Put he felt grieved 
to his very heart at her cutting indif- 
ference, and for once his spirit rebelled 
against it. 

‘•Lucy, how dare you treat me so? 
Wliat h ave I done to deserve it from 
3 mu ? You must know and see what 
a life of tempest and apprehension mine 
is. There are moments when I feel 
that I could welcome death rather than 
continue to live it.” 

She was not ungenerous. And, as 
he so spoke, it struck her that, what- 
ever her wrongs, she had been petty 
and ungracious to him now. And per- 


haps — heaven knew — he was really 
striving to rid himself of Mrs. Grey 
as earnestly as slTe could wish it. Her 
countenance softened. 

I am as a man tied down in a net 
from which there is no extrication,” 
he resumed with increased emotion. . 
“ Mj’ days are so full of care that E 
envy the poor laborers at work by the 
road-side, and wish I was one of them 
— anj' thing in the world, good or l>ad, 
but what that world calls me — Sir Karl 
Andinnian. And my wife,v^whom I 
have loved with my heart’s best love, 
and whom I might have fondly ho[)e 1 
would pity my strait and conpbrt me 
— she turns against me. God forgive 
3 mu for your harshness, Lucy.” 

The reproaches wrung her heart 
terribly. In the moment’s repentance, 
she believed she had judged him more 
hardl}’’ than he deserved. Her tone 
was gentle, her eyes had tears in them. 

“ I have to bear on my side too, 
Karl. Y’^ou forgot that.” 

Ko he did not forget it. But tlie 
temporarj^ anger was pre-eminent just 
then. A hot retort was on his lip-; 
when the sight of her face, sad with its 
utter sorrow, struck on eveiy generous 
chord he possessed, and changed his 
mood to pity. He crossed over and 
took her unresisting hands in his. 

Forgive my words, Lucy : you 
tried me ver}^ much. We have both 
something to forgive each other.” 

She could not speak; sobs were ris- 
ing in her throat. Karl bent forward 
and kissed her passionatelju 

“ Xeed we make life worse for one 
another than it is? ” he asked. 

I cannot help it,” she sobbed ; 

“ don’t blame me, for I cannot help it.” 

Suppose I take the matter into my 
own hands, Luc^q and say jmu sh ill 
help it.” 

You will not do that,” she sai 1, 
the implied threat restoring her cold- 
ness and calmness, tliough her face 
turned as pale as the blossoms of the 
jessamine. ‘‘ Things are bad enough 
as the}^ are, but that would make them 
worse. I should leave your home for 
good and all — and should have to say 
why I do so.” 

She knew how to subdue him. This 


148 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


/ 




exposure, if she carried it out, niiglit 
cost his brother’s safety. Karl drop- 
ped her hands, aucf went hack to ids 
post at the opposite side of the window. 

I liave not said quite all I wish to 
say,” he began, in a voice from which 
emotion had passed. As I had the 
day in London before me, I thouglit 
I would look after a pony-chaise for 
3’ou, Lucy, and I found a beauty. It 
will be home in a da\^ or two.” 

But you have not bought it ? ” 
Yes, I have.” 

‘‘ Oh, I’m sorry ! I did not want 
one. But it was very kind^f jmu to 
think of me, Karl,” she added in jmr 
gratitude. 

“And there’s a pretty pony to 
matcli : a small, quiet, gentle creature. 
I hope you will like him. I clinnot 
have you running about the place on 
foot, making yourse^* ill with the 
heat.” 

“ Thank you ; thank you. But I 
never drove in my l^e. I fear I should 
be a coward.” 

“ I will drive ^qu uiftil you get used 
to him. That is, if you will permit 
me. Luc 3% believe me, amidst all my 
care and trouble, your happiness lies 
next my heart.” 

On his way to leave the room, he 
stopped and shook hands with her. ‘ 
Tiieresa Blake, walking on the lawn 
beneath, had seen them conversing to- 
gether at the window. She thought a 
taste of Jane Shore’s pilloiy might 
not have been amiss for bringing Lady 
Andinnian to her senses. , 

Presently Luc}^ went down and had 
tea with Theresa, presiding herself at 
the cups and saucers by moonlight — 
for there was little light of day left. 
Sir Karl did not appear. He was in 
his room on the other side the house, 
holding some colloquy with Hewitt. 

“ I am going to have a pony-chaise, 
Theresa.” 

“Oh, indeed,” returned MiSs Blake, 
who seemed in rather a crusty humor. 
“I thought I heard you say that you i 
did not require one.” 

“ Perhaps I may be glad of ij;, fo'^^ 
all that. At any rate, Sir Karl ha*s^ 
bought it, pony, and chaise, and all ; 
and they will be down this week.” 


Miss Blake’s face was a scornful one 
just then, in her condemnation of 
wrong-doing. “ He bribes her into 
blindness,” was the thought that ran 
throutyh her mind. 

“ Why are 3mur eyes so red and 
heavy, Luc}^ ? They were so at din- 
ner.” 

“ My eyes red ! ” artfully responded 
Luc3^ “ Are they ? well, I have had 
rather a tiring da3'^, Theresa ; and it 
has been so very hot, you know. You 
ought to have waited for tlie flower- 
show. It was one of the best I ever 
saw.” 

“ Yes, I should have liked it.” 

“ I took home poor Miss Patchett 
in my fly, from the station,” went on 
Lucy, who seemed to be running from 
one topic to another, perhaps to divert 
attention from herself. “ She had been 
up to London to engage a servant, and 
looked tit to drop with the heat. Did 
you ever know it so hot before, 
Theresa ? ” 

“ I think not. Kot for a continu- 
ancv. Is Sir Karl going to take any 
tell? There’s nothing else so refresh- 
ing these sultiy evenings.” 

“ He sa3’'s tea only makes him 
hotter,” returned Lucy with a smile. 
“Iving the bell, please, Theresa: you 
are nearer to it than I am.” 

Giles appeared, in answer, and was 
sent by Lucy ^to inquire whether his 
master would fake tea, or not. The 
message brought forth Karl. The 
moon was shining right on the table. 

“ I’ll drink a cup of tea if 3^11 will 
put in^enty of milk to cool it,” said 
he. How romantic 3mu look here, 
sitting in the moonlight ! Thank 3mu, 
Lucy.”* 

“ We are glad to do without lights 
so long as we can this weather,” ob- 
served Miss Blake. 

He drauic the tea standing, and went 
back again. Luc3’’' sent tlie tra3^sawa3", 
aixl presently ordered the room to' be 
lighted. She then ensconced herself 
in an eas3" chair with one of the ro- 
mances Karl had brought her on the 
Saturda3' : and Miss Blake strolled out 
of doors. 

At first Lucy held the book upside 
down. Then she read a page three 


HARD TO BEAR. 


149 


times over, and conld not comprehend 
it. Ah, it was of no use, this pla_ying 
at light-liearted ease. She might keep 
up the farce tolerably well before peo- 
ple, but when alone with herself and 
her misery, it was a senseless mockery. 

Leaving the book behind her, she 
went wandering about from room to 
room. The windows of all were put 
open, to catch what little air there 
might be. As she stood in one of the 
unlighted rooms, Sir Karl passed along 
the terrace. She drew back lest he 
should see her, and heard him go into 
the lighted drawing-room and call her. 

Lucy ! '' 

Kot a word would she answer. She 
just stood back against the wall in the 
,(iark beyond the curtain, and kept 
still. He went out again, and began 
pacing the opposite path in the shade 
cast by the over-hanging trees. Lucy 
watched him. Suddenly he plunged in 
amidst the trees, and she heard one of 
the private gates open and close. 

He is gone there^^^ she said, the 
pulses of her heart quickening, and 
lier face taking a ghastly tinge in the 
moonlight. 

M iss Blake, who had been also lin- 
gering in the garden, in some of its 
hidden nooks and corners, her thoughts 
busy with the Reverend Guy Catta- 
comb and with certain im]:)rovements 
he contemplated at St. Jerome’s, had 
also seen Sir Karl, and watched his | 
stealthy exit. She immediately glided ) 
to another of the small private gates 
of egress, and cautiousl}^ opened it. 

Yes, I thought so : he is off to the 
IMaze,” she mentallj^ cried, as she saw 
Sir Karl, who had crossed the road, 
walking towards that secluded spot, 
and keeping close against the opposite 
hedge. The moonlight was flung 
prett\^ broadl}" upon the road to-night, 
hut the dark hedge served to screen 
him in a degree. Miss Blake's eyes 
were keen by moonlight or by day- 
light. She watched him pass under 
the trees at the entrance ; she watched 
him open the gate, and enter. And 
Miss Blake, that religious woman she 
was, wondered that the skies did not 
drop down upon such a monster in hu- 


man shape : she wondered that the 
same pure air from heaven, could be 
permitted to be breathed by him and 
by that earthly saint, The Reverend 
G-uy. 

Some few of us, my readers, are 
judging others in exactlj’ Bie same 
mistaken manner now : and^have no 
more suspicion that we are wrong and 
they right than Miss Theresa Blake 
had. 

Karl locked the gate softly, and 
wound himself through the maze of 
trees to the other end. Part of the 
grass-plat was steeped in light, and he 
saw j\[rs. Grey walking there. He 
crossed it to accost her. 

“ Did 3mu get back- yesterday", 
Rose,” he inquired, after shaking 
hands. 

‘fKo, not until this afternoon. Ren- 
net kept me. I saw him when I drove 
there yesterday ; but he was then pre- 
paring to go out of town for the rest 
of the day on business, and it was im- 
possible for him to Jo what was want- 
ed before this morning. So I had 
to wait in town. 

^'1 wonder we did not chance to 
travel down together then !” observed 
Karl. I did not return until this 
afternoon. Would 3'ou like to take 
m}^ arm. Rose, while ^mu walk.” 

Thank ^mu,” she answered, and 
took* it. She had on the high black 
I dress she had worn to London, and her 
I golden hair gleamed with all its beauty 
in the moonlight. Karl remarked 
that she leaned upon him somewhat 
heavily. 

You are tired. Rose ! ” 

I felt very tired when I got home. 
But Ann Hopley preaches to me so 
much about the necessity of taking 
exercise that I thought I would walk 
about here for half-an-hour. I have 
had scarcely any walking to-day: I 
was so fatigued with the journej^ and 
shopping yesterda\^ that I had to keep 
still this morning.” 

“ Where’s Adam ? ” 

In-doors. He is complaining of 
that sensation of pain again. I don't 
likfe it at all, Karl.” 

‘LAnd while he is lying concealed 


WITH IX THE MAZE. 


130 

liere he cannot have medical advice. 
At least, I don’t see how it. would be 
possible.” 

It would not be possible,” said 
Ivose, decisively. Oh, but I forirot — 
I have to tell you something, Karl. 
AVhom di> you think I traveled with 
from ]bl^*am to Foxwood?” 

I don’t know.” 

“ Your wife.” 

My wife ! ” 

“ It is true. I was in the ladies’ 
carriage alone all the wa}’ from Lon- 
don. At Basham a .young and elegant 
lady in pearl-gray silk and white, with 
tlie daintiest parasol I ever saw, was 
])ut in. An old gentleman — she called 
liim ‘ General ’ — and some ladies were 
with her on the platform. We were 
alone in the carriage, she and I ; and 
1 tlnnk we looked at each other a good 
deal. What she thought of me I 
don’t know ; but I thought that she 
liad one of the sweetest and gentlest 
faces my eyes ever rested on. Slie 
had a sweet voice, too, for we spoke a 
little just as we got to Foxwood.” 

But did you know her ? — did she 
know you ?” interrupted Karl. 

‘‘No, no. I should have had no 
idea who she was, but that there was 
some question about the one fly waiting 
there, and some one said it had been 
brought for Lady Andinnian. Karl, 
if ever I felt startled in my life, it was 
then. ‘ Lady Andinnian ; ’ I took it 
at the moment to mean me, and I felt 
my face turn wdiite at the danger. 
Almost at once I recognized my mis- 
take, and saw” how’ it was — that she 
was the Lady Andinnian meant. Sir 
Karl’s wife. I think I said something 
to her, but I was so confused I hardly 
know. I only have wondered since 
that I did not guess who she w'as at 
first, from her attire and her beauty.” 

Lucy did not tell me of this.” 

“ Oh, dear no, she w’ould not be like- 
ly to recall it, or to know me from any 
other stranger one may meet in travel- 
ing. Adam says you love to excess: 
1 am sure, Karl, 1 don’t wonder at 
it.” 

He made no answer. Yes, he loved 
his wife with a wondrous love : but 
just now she was trying it sharply. 


And about the matter you went 
up upon ? ” resumed IMiss Gray. “ Did 
you succeed in learning anything about 
Philip Salter ? ” 

‘•Xot much. I joined you on the 
grass here to tell you what I did learn 
before going into Adam. Salter has 
never been retaken : and the police 
have an idea that he is still in conceal- 
ment in England. There’s a reward of 
five hundred pounds out against him.” 

Why do they think he is in Eng- 
land ? ” asked liose, quickly. 

^ ‘‘ I don’t know. They would not 
tell me.” 

You communicated with the police 
then. Karl. You were not afraid ? ” 

“ Xot w'ith the police as a body, but 
with one of their private detectives, a 
Mr. Burtenshaw. Plunkett and Plun- 
kett gave me a note to him. It was 
he who said he believed Salter to be 
still in the country : but the reason for 
believing it he would not give me.” 

And did you get him described? ” 

Yes, by the very man who let him 
escape : Burtensliaw sent for him. In 
nearly every particular his description 
tallies with Smith.” 

“ Oh, Karl ! he is certainly Salter.” 

Does Smith wear his own hair?” 

Yes. At least,” she added, less 
decisively, ‘‘ if it were false I think I 
should not have failed to notice it. It 
is very dark : his whiskers are nearly 
black and his own hair nearly a shade 
lighter.” 

Just so. But — I should say Smith 
was fort}”.” 

“Al)Out that” 

‘^Well, Salter, they say would be 
now only five-and-thirty. I don’t at- 
tacdi much importance to the disparity,” 
added Karl : Salter’s trouble may 

'^lave prematurely aged him.” 

“What shall you do in it?” she 
asked. “It seems to me that if we 
could get Smith removed so as to leave 
Adam, in that sense, free, the half of 
our dreadfid trouble would be over.” 

“I don’t know what I shall do,” 
replied Karl. “It will not do to stir 
an inch in the touching of Smith, un- 
less 1 am sure and certain. At pres- 
ent, Bose, it seems to be for me only 
another care added to the rest.” 


HARD TO BEAR. 


151 


^^Karlo, old fellow,’ is that 3^011 ? 
intorrn[)ted a voice from tlie window 
over the porch. Wliat on earth do 
you sta^’ cliattering to the wife for ? I 
want you.” 

Karl looked up, nodded to his broth- 
er, and went in. Adam was in his 
customaiy evening attire, and just as 
ga^^ as usual. He waited for Karl at 
tlie head of the stairs and they went 
together into tlie sitting-room tliat was 
always used at night. This sitting- 
room had a second door, in the ])ane]- 
ling, one not visible to a casual ob- 
server. It communicated with a pas- 
sage that nothing else communicated 
with ; the passage communicated with 
a small room, and the small room with 
a spiral staircase, and that with nobod^^ 
knew what or where. Had Adam An- 
dinnian been surprised in his retreat, it 
was by that private door he would have 
made his escape — or tried to do it. 

Rose says you are not very well, 
Adam : that you are feeling the pain 
again,” began Karl. What do ^mu 
think it is ? ” 

Goodness knows,” returned Ad- 
am ; 1 don’t. opinion is, I must 

ill some wa}’’ have given my inside a 
deuce of a wrench. I don’t tell Rose 
that : she’d set on and woriy herself.” 

‘‘ 1 hope it is nothing serious — that 
it w'ill soon pass off. You see, Adam, 
the cruel difficulty we should be in, if 
you were to require niedieal advice.” 

Oh, bother!” cried Adam. 

Why do you sa^^ ‘ bother ? ’ ” 

Because it is bother, and nothing 
else. When did I ever want medical 
advice ? In general health, I’m as 
strong as a horse.” 

When we were ^mung men at 
home, they used to sa}" 1 had twice 
the constitution that you had, Adam, 
in s{)ite of 3’our strong looks.” 

Home fallacy I ” said Adam light- 
]y. “ It was the father used to saj^ 

that, I remember. For the most part, 
the preaching that people make over 
Constitution’ is worth no more than 
the breath wasted 011 it. The proof of 
a pudding is in the eating: and the 
proof of a sound constitution lies in a 
man’s good strength. I am stronger 
than you, Karl.” 


To argue with Adam Andinnian had 
been alwiys about as j)rofi table as to 
tell a ship to sail against the wind. 
So Karl said no more about strength. 

“ The chance that such a necessitj^ 
mav arise, Adam, and tlie difficulty 
and danger that would attend it ” 

‘‘What necessity?” interru[)ted 
Adam. 

“Of your requiring a medical man. 
Your wife will want one ; but that’s 
different: she is supposed to live here 
alone, and vou will of course be out of 
the way. But the other thought does 
cross my mind anxiouslj" sometimes. 

“ Karlo, old man, you .were always 
one of the anxious ones. I am content 
to leave problems alone until thej" arise. 
It is the best wa}’.” 

“ Sometimes it ma}’ be ; not alwaj’s. 
Of course all these thoughts turn 
round to one point, Adam — the urgent 
expediency there exists for 3’our quit- 
ting the IMaze.” 

“ And I am not going to quit it.” 

“The advance of those people on 
Saturday night; the studied tramp, as 
I thought it, of policemen, gave me a 
fright, Adam. Let us suppose such a 
thing for a moment — that the\^ were 
coining after you. Ko earthly aid 
could have shielded 3mu.” 

“ But the3" were not coming after me, 
3mu see ; the3’ were but cariying some 
poor dead man to his home on my 
estate. The same fear ma3" 
wherever I go.” 

“ Ko, it could not. It could appl3^ 
to nowhere as it does to here. In some 
place abroad, Adam, 3*011 would be, 
comparativeh^ secure and safe. I aui 
convinced that this localit3^ is, of all, 
the most dangerous.” 

“ If I were already at the same place 
you mention, wherever that ,ma3" be — 
ah inaccessible island in the ic3" seas, 
say — I should undoubtedl3" be more out 
of the reach of English constables and 
warders than I am now : but as mat- 
ters stand, Karl, I am safer here, be- 
cause the danger to me would lie in 
getting away. I shall not attempt to 
do it.” 

Karl paused for a few minutes be- 
fore he resumed. His brother, sitting 
near the shaded lamp, was turning over 


152 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


the pa^es of the Art Journal, a cop3’ 
of wliicli JMrs. Gre}' luul brought from 
London. 

How came you to know Smitli, 
' Adam?’^ 

“ How came I to know Smith,” re- 
peated Sir Adam. ‘‘ To tell you tlie 
trutli, Ivarl, Smith saved me. But for 
his sheltering mein tlie time 3"ou know 
of, I should not be at libert3" now ; 
probably’’ not in life. Until then, lie 
was a stranger. 

And for saving 3^11 he exacts his 
mail.” 

Little blame to him for it,”' re- 
turned Sir Adam, with a half laugh. 

“I believe that the man is keeping 
3"ou here,”' continued Karl. ^‘That 
3’ou dare not go awaj- unless he lifts 
his finger.” 

‘^Naturall3^ he is anxious for my 
safety, Karl ; for the sake of his own 
self-interest.”' 

Precisely so. He would rather 
keep 3mu here in danger than suffer 
3mu to escape to freedom. Do 3mu 
know an3"thing of his antecedents ? ” 

“Kothing. For all I can tell, as to 
who or what the man was before the 
night he rescued me, he might have 
dropped from the moon.” 

And since then it has been the 
business of 3’our life to conciliate him, 
Adam ! ” 

“What would 3mu ? The man 
knows that I am Adam Andinnian : 
and, knowing it, that he holds a sword 
over me. Is it wortli my while, or 
not, to tr3" to keep it from falling? ” 

Karl sighed deepl3\ He saw all the 
intricacies of the case ; and,, what was 
worse, he saw no outlet from them. If 
only he could but feel tliat his brother 
was passablj" safe at the Maze, he would 
have been less uneasy : but a secret in- 
stinct, that he surel3" believed was a 
prevision, warned liim of danger. 

“ I wish with my whole heart, Ad- 
am, that 3’ou had never come here ! ” 
broke from him, in his dire perplexity, 
the reiterated ciy. 

Sir Adam tlirew down the Arf 
Journal, and turned to confront his 
brother, leaning a little forward in his 
chair. His face was flushed, his voice 


took a tone of p.lssion, even his beauti- 
ful teeth looked stern. 

“ Karl, did 3’ou ever try to realize to 
3murself all the horrors of my position 
at Portland?” he asked. “ I, a gen- 
tleman, with a gentleman’s habits — 
and a man to whom freedom of will 
and of limb was as the veiy essence of 
life — was condemned forever to a man- 
acled confinement ; to mate with fel- 
ons ; to be pointed at as one of a herd 
of convict laborers. A felon myself, 
3’ou will perhaps sa3^ ; but I do not re- 
cognize it. Had I been guilty of 
aught disgraceful ? No. What I did 
in shooting that man Scott I was per- 
fect!}' justified in doing, after my sol- 
emn warning to him. Keinernber, it 
was m3' wife he insulted that evening; 
not simply, as the world was allowed to 
believe, mv voung neighbor, IMiss Hose 
Turner. What should you feel if some 
low reprobate seized 3’our wife, Lucy, 
before 3'our e3'es, and pressed his foul 
kisses on her innocent face ? A^our 
blood would be up I take it.” 

“ Adam, since I knew she was 3'our 
wife I have held you justified.” 

“ To go on. Can you realize a tithe, 
of what it was for me on Portland Is- 
land ? ” 

“ From the time 3'ou went there un- 
til I heard of your death, I never 
ceased to realize it in ny own soul 
night or day.” 

“Karl, 1 believe it. I remember 
what 3'our sensitivel}^ tender nature al- 
ways used to be. And we did care for 
each other, old fellow.” 

“ Ay, and t/o.” 

“AVell, compare that life I escaped 
from with this that I lead now. Here 
I am, so to sa}', a free man, at perfect 
libert}' within these small bounds, 1113" 
wife for 1113^ companion, 1113' table at 1113' 
command, master of my own estate, 
the revenues of which 1 divide with 
3'ou that you may be the baronet to the 
world aiui keep up Foxwood. As fate 
has fallen, Karl, 1 could not be so liap- 
P3' ain' where as here.” 

“1 know; I know'. But it is the 
risk I fear.” 

“ There must be some risk ever}"- 
wdiere.” 


THE MAZE I^^YADED. 


Answer me truly — as yon would to 
your own heart, Adam. If by some 
miracle j’ou could be transported safely 
to a far-off land, would you not -feel 
more secure than here ? ” 

“Yes. And for Rose’s sake I would 
go if I could : she is just as apprehen- 
sive here as you. But I can’t. When 
Smith says I must not attempt to get 
away, he is right. I feel tliat he is. 
Tlie man’s interest lies in my safety.” | 

“ Just so,” said Karl. “ Smith is the 
stumbling-block.” 

“Well, he holds the reins, you see. 
It is no use trying to fight against his 
opinion. I can’t afford to come to a 
rupture with him. Good heavens, 
Karl ! fancy his sending me back in 
irons to Portland ! That will never 
be, however,” added Sir Adam more 
calmly, “for I would not be taken 
alive. I or my capturers should fall.” 

He put his hand inside his white 
waistcoat, and showed the end of a pis- 
tol. One he kept close to him night 
and day, always loaded, always ready. 

And so the interview ended in noth- 
ing, just as others had ended. 

A black cloud, threatening thunder, 
had come over the summer’s night 
when Karl went out. It did not seem 
to him half so dark as the trouble at 
his own lieart. He would have given 
his life freely, to purchase security for 
bis brother. 

-■ ♦ 

CHAPTER XXII. 

THE MAZE INVADED. 

The previous night’s black cloud 
had culminated in a thunder-storm, and 
the morning air felt fresh and cool ; 
but the blue sky was clear, the sun as 
bright as ever. 

Lucy came down with sad e^^es and 
a pale face. Pier night had been one of 
mental pain. She was wondering how 
much longer she could keep up this 
mask of cheerfulness — which she would 
especially liave to wear that day; and 
she knew that she could not have done 
it at all but for the very present help 
of God. Karl, waiting in the break- 


153 

fast-room, turned to shake hands with 
her. But for being alone, he would not 
have ventured on this very suggestive 
action. 

“ How are you to-day, Lucy ? ” 

“ Oh quite well, thank you. Did you 
hear the storm ? ” 

“ Yes. It has cleared away .some of 
the sultry heat. We shall have a love- 
ly day.” 

The Lloyds were expected from Ba- 
sham. When at the flower-show the 
previous da}^ Lucy had remarked that 
some of the hot-house plants were not 
•as fine as those at Foxwood : upon that, 
the General and one of his daughters 
had simultaneously expressed a wish to 
see those at Foxwood. Lucy at once 
gave the invitation ; and it was arrang- 
ed that they should spend the next 
day at the Court. She had told her 
husband of this while Captain Lamp- 
rey was present ; but it had not 
been alluded to afterwards. She spoke 
again now, while she and Karl were 
waiting breakfast for ]\Iiss Blake, who 
was at Matins at St. Jerome’s. 

“ I could not do less than ask them,” 
she observed. I hope you are not 
vexed.” 

“You did quite right, Lucy,” be 
cheerfully answered. “ I shall be very 
glad to see them.” 

“ I don’t know how many will come. 
Perhaps all ; except TVlrs. Llo^’d, who 
never goes out anywhere. I hope 
Theresa will give up St. Jerome’s for 
the rest of the day, and stay at home 
to help entertain them.” 

Karl smiled. “ To make sure of that 
you should invite jMr. Cattacomb.” 

“But you would not like that, would 
you ? ” 

“ Xo. I was only joking, Lucy. 
Here she is.” 

The Lloyds had said they would 
come early, and Karl strolled out to 
meet the eleven o’clock train, leaving 
his wife decorating her drawing-room 
with flowers. Unhappy though Lucy 
was, she was proud of her home, and 
pleased that it should find admiration 
in the eyes of the world. 

As Karl was passing Clematis Cot- 
tage, he saw Mr. Smith seated at the 


164 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


open window, leisurely enjoying the 
fresliened air, and smoking a cigar. 
]varl had been wanting to take a close 
observant view of him ; and he turned 
in on tf.e spur of the moment. Tim 
asking for something whic.h he really 
required afforded an excuse. INlr. 
Smitii rose u|) to receive him graciously, 
and threw his half-smoked cigar out at 
the window. 

‘*1 think you have the plan of the 
out-lying lands of ‘the estate, ]\Ir. 
ISmirji. where the new cottages are pro- 
jected ? Will you spare it to me in 
the course of the day ? I will send 
Hewitt for it.’’ 

‘HJertainlv, Sir Karl ; it is at your 
service. Won’t 3’ou take a seat? 
Tlie bit of a breeze at tliis open win- 
dow is quite refreshing.” 

Karl sat down. Mr. Smith’s green 
glasses hyy on the table, and he could 
enjoy as clear a view of liim as he 
])leased. The agent talked away, all 
unconscious no doubt that notes were 
being taken of his face and form. 

It is his own hair,” mentally spoke 
Karl. ‘ Veiw dark brown,’ they said ; 
‘nearly’ black.’ Just so. At the time 
of the escape Salter had neither whis- 
kers nor beard nor moustache : now 
the probability is that he has a full 
crop of all. tTust so, again. Eye- 
brows : thick and arched, Grimle}” said : 
these are not thick ; nor, what I should 
call, arched : perhaps there ina^’ bo 
some way of manipulating eyebrows, 
and these have undergone the process. 
Eyes brown : \’es. Face fresh and 
pleasant: yes. Voice and manners, 
free and genial; yes. Age? — there I 
can’t make the two ends meet. 1 am 
sure this man’s forty. Is it Salter, or 
is it not? finalh' summed up Karl. 

I don’t know. I think it is: but I 
don't know.” 

“ Truelit the farmer spoke to me 
yesterday, Sir Karl. He was asking 
whether jmii and Lad)^ Andinnian 
viewed this new farce on hijj grounds 
with a[)probation. Tliat’s what he 
called it — farce. Meaning St. Je- 
rome’s.” 

I suppose he does not like it,” ob- 
served Karl. 


^‘1 fancy he does not reall}^ care 
about it himself, one wav or the other, 
Sir Karl ; in fact, he signiiied as much. 
But it seems his better-half, Mrs. True- 
fit. lias taken a prejudice against it: 
calling the ceremonies ^ goings-on,’ and 
‘rubbish,’ and ‘scandal,’ and all sorts 
of things. It is a pit}" Mr. Cattacomb 
can’t confine himself to tolerable com- 
mon-sense. T 1 le idea of their hanging 
that bell outside over the door, and 
pulling it perpetuall}" ! ” 

“ Yes,” said Karl. “ So much non- 
sense takes all solemnity away.” 

“They are going to dress Tom I’epp 
in a white garment while he rings it, 
with a red cross down the back. It’s 
that, I fanc}^ that has put up IMrs. 
Truefit. I told the farmer that I be- 
lieved Sir Karl and Lad}'’ Andinnian 
did not favor the place : at least, that 
I had never seen them attend it.” 

‘^And you never will,” returned 
Karl, as he rose. 

There was nothing to sta}^ for; his 
observations were taken, and he de- 
parted, having to walk quickl}" to be 
in time at the station. The party came 
by it; six of them. Captain Lloyd, 
who was at home on leave; two Miss 
Lloyds ; a married sister and her hus- 
band, Mr. and INIrs. Fanton, at present 
staying on a visit; and the General. 

Karl had expressed pleasure at his 
wife’s invitation; perhaps had felt it; 
but he could not foresee the imlucky 
contretem[)s that the visit was tp bring 
forth. To his unbounded astonish- 
ment, his inward confusion, no sooner 
had’ his guests entered Foxwood Court, 
than they expressed a wish to see the 
place called the Maze, and requested 
Sir Karl to conduct them to it. 

“I was telling Faiiton about the 
Maze last night — talking of the 
Court and its surroundiiigs,” observed 
the General. “Fanton does not be- 
lieve it possible that one could lose 
oneself in any maze whatever: so I 
promised him he should have a try at 
it. You will afford us the opportunity 
of seeing it. Sir Karl.” 

“I — I am not sure,” stammered 
Karl, utterly taken aback, while his 
wife’s face flushed a burning red. “ I 


THE MAZE I^:VADED. 


155 


think it is in ray power, Gener- 
al. The lady who inhaluts it desires to 
keep herseir so very quiet, that I should 
not feel justified in intruding upon her. 
She is not in strong health, I believe.’^ 

“ But we would not think of disturb- 
ing the lady,’^ called out all the voices 
together. We only wish to see the 
maze of trees. Sir Karl : not the dwell- 
ing-house. What’s her name ? 

“ Gr^*y.” 

Well, we shall not hurt her. Does 
she live by herself?^’ 

Wdiile her husband is abroad. I 
ara sure she will not choose to be in- 
truded upon.’^ 

Sir Karl might as well have talked 
to the winds. All opposed him. Of 
course there was no suspicion that he 
liad any personal objection ; only that 
lie wished to respect the scruples of his 
lady-tenant. At length the General 
declared he would go over to Mrs. 
Grey, ask to see her, and personall}" 
prefer the request. Poor Karl was at 
his wit’s end. He saw that he should 
not be able to stem the storm — for he 
dared not be resolute in the denial, so 
fearful was he always of arousing any 
suspicion of there being a mystery in 
the pla(‘.e — and he was fain to yield. 
He would take them over, he said ; but 
not before he had sent a note to say 
that they were coming. This he in- 
sisted on ; it would be but common 
politeness, he urged; and they all 
agreed. 

Hastily writing a few words to Mrs. 
Grey in his own room, he called Hew- 
itt to take the note over, and gave him 
at the same time a private message to 
deliver to Ann Hople3\ Of course 
Karl’s object was to warn his bro- 
ther to keep out of siglit — and Mrs. 
Grey too. Hewitt looked more scared 
than his master. 

‘‘To think of their wanting to go 
over there ! he exclaimed. 

A few minutes, and Hewitt came 
hack with a message. Mrs. Grey’s 
compliments to Sir Karl Andinnian, 
and he was at liberty to bring his 
friends within her gates if he pleased. 
So they all started ; Lucy with them. — 

Lucy with them! 


The ladies had assumed it to be so 
much a matter of course that their 
hostess^ should accompany them, that 
Lucy, all timid in her self-conscious- 
ness, saw not her way clear to any plea 
of excuse. And it might be that, d(jwn 
deep in her woman’s frail heart, there 
was a hankering longing to see the in- 
side of that place which contained her 
rival. In the midst of her indecision 
she glanced at Karl and hesitated. Ikit 
he saw not the look or the hesitation : 
for all the sign he gave, she was as 
welcome to see the place as these guests 
were. 

The party started, passing out at 
the grand gates of Foxwood. Between 
that spot and the Maze, short though 
it was, they encountered Mr. Catta- 
comb. Miss Blake took upon herself 
to introduce him, and to ask him to 
accompany them, saying they were 
going to see that renowned show-place, 
the Maze. 

“ I did not know we had a show- 
place in the neighborhood,” drawled 
Mr. Cattacomb in his affectation. 

either have we,” curtly rejoined 
Sir Karl, who would willingly have 
pitched Mr. Cattacomb over a mile 
elsewhere, but did not see his way clear 
to do it. “The Maze was never con- 
stituted a show-place yet, INIiss Blake. 
I feel anything but comfortable at in- 
truding there to-day, I assure you. 
Between my wish to gratify my friends 
and my fear that it may be objection- 
able to the occupant of the Maze, 
I am in a blissful state of uncertainty,” 
he added in a laughing kind of way, 
for the general benefit, fearing lie miglit 
have spoken too pointedly and shown 
tliat he was really ill at ease. 

“ Sir Karl is always ultra-sensitive,” 
remarked Miss Blake — and a keen ob- 
server might have fancied there was 
some sarcasm in her tone. 

Karl rang the clanging bell — which 
might be heard far and wide ; and Ann 
Hopley appeared, the key of the gate 
in her hand, and courtesied to the com- 
pany as she admitted them. 

“My mistress desires me to say. Sir 
Karl, that she hopes the gentle-})eople 
will see all they wish to see,” cried the 


136 


WITHIN THE I\[AZE. 


woman aloud, addres^iu" the rest as 
much as she did Sir Karl. Mrs. 
Grey liopes they will pardon her^not ap- 
pearing to welcome them, but she is not 
well to-day and has to keep her room.” 

Mrs. Grey is very kind,’^ returned 
Sir Karl. We shall be cautious not 
to disturb her.’^ * 

They tiled of their own accord into 
the maze. The old trees had not been 
so beset with gay tongues and laughter 
for man}^ a day. One ran here, anoth- 
er there: they were like schoolboys 
and girls out for a holiday. Ann Hop- 
ley was about to wind her way back 
when the clanging bell at the gate 
once more sounded, and she turned 
back to open it. Karl, never at rest — 
as who could be, knowing what he 
knew — looked after her as he walked 
with the rest ; and he saw that the 
visitor was a policeman. 

His heart leaped into his mouth. 
Careless in the moment’s terror of what 
might be thought of him, he broke off 
in the middle of a sentence to the Gen- 
eral, and went to the gate. His face 
was never very rosy, but every vestige 
of color had forsaken it now. At a 
collected moment, he would have re- 
membered that it was not in that way 
his brother would have been sought 
out — in the person of one solitary un- 
armed policeman — but ^fear scares 
probability away. ^ Worse than all, the 
rest came flocking to the gate after 
him. 

‘‘Grey, ain’t it?” the policeman 
was saying to Ann Hojdey. He had a 
paper in his hand and a pencil. 

“ Mrs. Grey,” replied the servant. 

“ Mrs. Grey. There aint no hus- 
band, I think ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ What’s her Chris’en name ? ” 

“ A warning glance from Sir Karl’s 
eyes, cautioning Ann Hopley to be on 
her guard. In truth it was not need- 
ed : the woman was caution itself and 
had her ready wits at hand always. 
Karl saw what it was — some parish pa- 
per about to be left — arnl was recover- 
ing his inward equanimity. 

“ iMy mistress’s Christian name? 
Mary.” 


“ ^Irs. IMary Grey,” repeated the 
policeman, writing down the name on 
the {)aper. “You’ll please to give it 
her,” he added, handing the paper in. 
“It have got to be attended to.” 

“ All tax-papers for ]\Irs. Grey must 
come to Foxwood Cofirt,” interposed 
Sir Karl. “ jMrs. Grey takes the 
house furnished, and has nothing to do 
with the taxes.” 

“ Beg pardon. Sir Karl, but that 
there’s a voting paper for a poor-law 
guardian,” said the man, touching his 
hat. 

“ Oh, a voting paper. Let it go in 
then,” concluded Sir Karl. j\[rs. 
Grey had no more to do with voting 
than she had with taxes : but Sir Karl 
let it pass. 

They were in the maze again : Ann 
Hopley having wound herself out of 
sight with the paper. Mr. Pan ton, 
the disbeliever, wound himself in and 
out of the trees and about the paths ; 
but the voices always guided him back 
again. 

‘‘What a delightful place. Sir 
Karl!” cried Mrs. Panton. ^ “Quite 
like a Fair Kosamond’s bower.” 

Sir Karl laughed in reply. And — 
as Miss Blake noticed — there was not 
a trace of shame in his face. Lucy’s 
color, though, had risen painfully. 

“ Let me see I it was a silken thread, 
was it not, that guided Queen Eleanor 
to her rival ? ” continued Mrs. Panton. 
“ A cruel woman ! I wonder wliether 
she carried the bowl of poison in her 
hand ? ” 

“ I wonder if the woman who de- 
stroyed the queen’s happiness, had any 
forewarning in her dreams of the fate 
in store for her ? ” retorted Miss Blake 
sharply — for she was thinking of anoth- 
er case, very near to her, that she 
judged to be analagous. “For her 
punishment it is to be hopeM she had.” 

“ Oh, but you know she was so love- 
ly, poor thing I One can but pity her; 
can we, Lady Andinnian ?” 

“ I know nothing of it,” spake Lucy, 
in so chafed a tone that Karl turned to 
look at her. 

“My o[)inion is that the king should 
have taken half the bowl,” said Miss 


THE MAZE INVADED. 


157 


Blake. ^^That would have been even 
justice, Mrs. Pan ton.’’ 

Well, well, judge it as you will, 
Fair Posamond was very beautiful and 
her fate shocking. Of course the 
queen was incensed ; naturall}’' : and 
the crime of poisoning in those days 
was, I suppose, looked upon as no crime 
at all. I have always wished the queen 
had been lost in the maze and the poi- 
son spilt.” 

‘^Suppose we get lost in this one ! ” 

It was Miss Lloyd who spoke, hurri- 
edly, and somevNdiat anxiously. It 
brought most of them around her. 

There’s no danger here, is there ? 
Sir Karl, you know the way out, I sup- 
pose ? ” 

Karl evaded the question. If the 
worst came to the worst, we can set on 
and shout, he observed. 

But don’t you know the clue ? Is 
there not a clue ? there must be ! ” 

“ I see nothing of the kind,” returned 
Karl. “You forget that I am almost 
a stranger in the neighborhood. “ We 
shall be all right. Don’t fear.” 

How Lucy despised him for his de- 
ceit. She felt that he must have the 
clue : How else could he let himself 
in with his key — at least, with any 
purpose of finding his way further in 
after it ? Miss Blake cauglit her eye ; 
and Lucy turned away, sick at heart, 
from the compassion it wore. 

Sir Karl’s “Don’t fear” had been 
reassuring, and thej^ dispersed about 
the maze and lost themselves in it very 
much as Miss Blake had once done. 
Mr. Cattacomb kept asking questions 
about the mistress of the Maze : why 
she lived there alone, where her hus- 
band was : for all of which Sir Karl 
could have struck him. He, Karl, 
would have contrived to keep them 
fiom the side next the house : but they 
w'ere as nine to one, and went whither 
they would : and, as had been ]\Iiss 
Blake’s case, they got within view of 
the house at last. 

“ Oh, what a pretty place ! ” was the 
involuntary exclamation from more 
than one. 

It did look pretty: pretty and very 
cheerful. The windows of the house 


were open ; the door of the porch was 
fastened back, as if to invite entrance. 
Not a sign or symptom was there of 
there being anj^ cause for concealment. 

So far good, and Karl felt satisfied. 
But, as his e3’es went ranging far and 
wide in their longed-for security, there 
was no doubt that he somewdiere or 
other caught sight of his imprudent 
brother, for his face changed to an 
ashj^ paleness, and he groaned in spirit. 

“ Adam’s surely mad,” was his men- 
tal cry. 

Ann Hopley, who had probabl}^ been 
waiting about, stepped up, and asked 
with much civility if they would like 
to walk in-doors and rest. Sir Karl, 
looking at his friends, as if for acqui- 
escence in his denial, declined peremp- 
torily. “ We have no right to intrude,” 
he whispered : and the general saidgSO 
too. 

“ This might really do for a Kosa- 
rnond’s bower!” cried IMrs. Banton. 
“It is a sweetly pretty" place.” 

The lawn was level as a bowling- 
room ; the flowers and shrubs surround- 
ing it were well kept, fragrant, and 
blooming. Mounted on a ladder, nail- 
ing some branches against a wall, that 
probably belonged to a tool house, was 
the toothless old gardener, his knees 
swollen and bent, his white smock 
frock rolled up around him. 

“ That’s the gardener at his work, I 
suppose ? ” observed the general, whose 
eyes were dim. 

“Yes, that’s Hopley,” said Karl. 

“ What d’ye call his name, Sir 
Karl ? ” 

“ Hopley. He is the woman’s hus- 
band.” 

“ I had a servant once of that name 
when I was quartered at Malta. A 
good one he was, too.” 

“ That man 3mnder looks ill,” re- 
marked Mrs. Pan ton. 

“ I fancy he has rheumatism,” said 
Sir Karl. “ How is your husband?” 
he added to Ann Hople3\ 

“ Pretty middling, sir, thank 3mu. 
He is getting in 3^ears 3mu see, gentle- 
folks, and is not as strong as he was.” 

“ Will 3mu be so good as to precede us 
through the maze and let us out,” said 


153 




WITHIN THE :\rAZE. 


Sir Karl to lier. I think it is time 
we went/’ lie aikleil to the others : “ we 
have seen tliere is to see.” 

Ann key in liand, went 

winding tli rough tlie iVIaze, in and out 
of the numberless paths. It seemed to 
those following her that they only went 
round and round — just as it had seemed 
to Miss Hlake that former day ; and it 
took some time to get through it. The 
Reverend Mr. Cattacomb called it a 
pilgrimage.” 

She was crafty, that faithful woman, 
just as she had led Miss Blake, a need- 
lessly rouncj-about way, so she led them 
now. Had she taken them direct 
through, who l^ew but they might 
have caught some inkling of the clue? 
AVhile opening the gate. General Llo3^d 
would iiave put half-a-crown into her 
ly-nd. She would not take it, 

^ I’d rather not, sir ; I’ve done 
nothing to merit it. Our mistress 
pays us both well. Thank you, sir, 
all the same.” 

Crossing the road from the maze, the 
party came right in view of Clematis 
Cottage and Mr. Smith, who was lean- 
ing over the gate of it and staring with 
all his might. He raised his hat to the 
ladies generally, and then accosted Sir 
Karl, saying he had taken the plan, 
asked for, to the Court. 

“Thank ^mu,” replied Karl. 

“ Who is that man ? ” cried Captain 
Lloyd with some energy as they went 
on. “ I am sure I know him.” 

“His name’s Smith,” replied Karl, 
“he is a sort of agent on my estate.” 

“ Smith — Smith ! I don’t recollect 
the name. His face is quite familiar 
to me, though. Where can I have 
seen it ? ” 

Karl longed in his heart to ask 
whether the face had ever belonged to 
the name of Salter; but he did not 
dare. There had been a peculiar ex- 
pression in Mr. Smith’s e3'(*s as he 
spoke to him just now, wdiich Karl had 
read arightl}" — he was sure Smith 
wanted to speak to him privately. So, 
after the rest had entered the home 
gates, he turned back. The agent had 
not stirred from his place. 

“ What have they been doing there. 


I Sir Karl?” he asked, with a peremp- 
tory action of his hand towards the 
Maze. 

Karl explained. He did not dare 
do otherwise. 

“Curious fools!” cried the man 
angrily. “Well, no harm is done, sir. 
Seeing you all come out of the gate, I 
could not believe my eyes, or imagine 
what was up.” 

“ I fancied you wdshed to speak to 
me, Mr. Smith.” 

“And so I do, Sir Karl. The letters 
w^ere late this morning — did you know 
it? They’ve only just been delivered. 
Some accident I suppose.” 

“ I only know^ tliat none came to 
Foxwood Court this morning.” 

“ Just so. Well, Sir Karl, I’ve had 
one ; ten minutes ago. I wrote to make 
inquiries ^^ut that paragraph in the 
newspape* and this was the answer to 
my letter. It is as I thought. There’s 
nothing knowm or suspected at all 
at head quarters; neither at Scotland 
Yard nor Portland Island. It w^as the 
work of the penny-a-liner, hang him!” 

“To whom did ^mu w'rite?” 

“ Well, that’s my business, and I 
cannot tell you. But jmu may rely on 
what I sa^’ — and set ^mur mind at rest. 
I thought you’d like to know^ this. Sir 
Karl, as soon as possible.” 

“ Thank you,” replied Karl. 

He went back to his guests, his 
brain busy. Was this true, that Sinitli 
said ? who then was Smith that he 
could get this information? But 
Karl was rather inclined to believe it 
was not true ; and that Smith was saj^- 
ing it for a purpose. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A NEW LODGER IN PARADISE ROW. 

Thi? buff-colored blinds were down 
before Mr. BurteUshaw’s windows in 
the Easton Roa|l, shutting out the 
glare of the aftefnoon sun, and throw- 
ing an unwholesome kind of tint over 
the rooms. In one of them, the front 
room on the first floor, sat the detec- 
tive himself. It was indeed a kind of 


A NEW L O D G E R IX PARADISE R O AV. 


150 


office as well as a sittincr-room : papers 
strewed the table ; pigeon holes and 
shelves, all filled, were ranged along 
the walls. 

Mr. Burtenshaw had a complicated 
case in hand at that period. Some 
fresh information had just come in by 
private letter, and he was giving the 
best attention of his clear mind to it: 
his head bent over the table ; his liands 
resting on the papers immediately be- 
fore him. Apparently he arrived at 
some conclusion : for he nodded twice 
and then began to fold the papers to- 
gether. 

The servant maid with the fl aunty 
cap tilted on her head entered the 
room, and said to her master that a gen- 
tleman had called and was requesting 
to see him. 

“ AVho is it ? ’’ asked ]\rr. Burten- 
shaw. 

lie gave no name, sir. It’s the 
same gentleman who called twice or 
thrice in one day about a fortnight ago : 
the last time late at night. He’s very 
nice-looking, sir; might be known for 
a gentleman a mile off.” 

The detective carried his thoughts 
back, and remembered. ‘‘ You can 

show him up,” he said. Or stay, 

Harriet,” he suddenl}’ added as the girl 
was leaving the room. Go down first 
of all and ask the gentleman, his 
name.” 

She went as desired, and came up 
again fixing her absurd cap on its tot- 
tering [)innacle. 

“ The gentleman says, sir, that you 
don’t know him by name, but his so- 
licitors are jMesss. Plunkett and Plun- 
kett.” 

Ay. Show him up.” 

The reader need not be told that it 
was Karl Andinnian who entered. The 
object of his visit was to get, if possi- 
ble, some more information respecting 
Philip Salter. 

by day and week by week as 
they went on, served to show Karl An- 
dinnian that his broUier’s stay at the 
IMaze was growing more full of risk. 
Karl and ^Irs. Gre^q conversing on the 
matter as opportunity occurred, had 
yearly set it down as a certainty that 


Smith was no other than Setter. She 
felt sure of it. Karl nearly so. And 
he was persuaded that, once Smith’s 
influence could be removed, Adam 
might get safely away. 

The question ever agitating Karl's 
brain, in the midnight watches, in the 
garish day, was — what could he do in 
the matter? — how proceed in it at all 
with perfect security ? The first thing 
of course was to ascertain that the man 
was Salter ; the next to make a bargain 
with him : You leave my brother 

free, and I will leave yon free.” For it 
was by no means his intention to de- 
liver Salter up to justice. Karl had re- 
alized too keenly the distress and hor- 
ror of a poor fugitive, hiding from the 
law, to denounce the worst criminal liv- 
ing. 

The difficulty lay in the firs^step — • 
the identification of Smith with Salter. 
How could he ascertain it? He.^did 
not know. Pie could not see any way 
to accom})lish it with safety. Grim ley 
knew Salter — as in fact did several of 
Grimley’s brotherhood — but, if he once 
brought Grimley within a bird’s eye 
view of Smith (being Salter) Grimley 
would at once lay his grasping hamls 
upon him. All would be over then: 
for the chances were that Salter in re- 
venge would point his finger to the 
Maze, and say, “ There lives a greater 
criminal than I ; your supposed dead 
convict, Adam Andinnian.” 

The reader must see the difficulty 
and the danger. Karl dared not bring 
Grimley or any other of the police in 
contact with Smith; he dared not give 
them a clue to where he might i e 
found : and he had to fall back upon 
the uncertain and unsatisfactory step 
of endeavoring to track out the identi- 
ty himself. “ If I could but get to 
know Burtenshaw’s reason for thinking 
Salter was in England,” he exclaimed 
to himself over and over again, ‘‘ 
haps it might help me. Su[)[)Ose I 
were to ask Burtenshaw again — and 
press it on him? Something might 
come of it. After all he could but re- 
fuse to tell me.” 

Just as Karl, after much painful de- 
liberation, had determined to do this, 


160 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


there arrived at Foxwood a summons 
for Ills wife. Colonel Cleeve was at- 
tacked with sudden illness. In tlie 
first shock of it, IMrs. Cleeve feared it 
might prove fatal, and she sent for 
Luc}". Karl took her to Winchester 
and left her, and at once took up his 
own abode for a few days in London. 
The Court had none too much attrac- 
tion for him as matters stood, and he 
did not care to be left to entertain jMiss 
Llake. So long as his wife stayed 
away, he meant to stay. 

The following afternoon saw him at 
the detective’s. Mr. Lurtenshaw had 
thought his unknown visitor looking ill 
before : he looked worse now.” A 
delicate man with some great care 
upon him/’ summed up the officer men- 
tally. 

Karl, opening his business, led up to 
the question he had come to ask. 
Would i\Ir. Burtenshaw coiffide to him 
the reason for his supposing Philip 
Salter to be still in England? At first 
]\Ir. Burtenshaw said No; that it could 
not, he imagined, concern him or any 
one else to hear it. Karl pleaded, and 
pleaded earnestly. 

Whatever you say shall be kept 
stricll}’ sacred,” he urged. It cannot 
do harm to any one. I have a power- 
ful motive for asking it.” 

And a painful one, too,” thought 
the detective. Karl was leaning for- 
ward in his chair, his pale face sliglitly 
flushed with his inward emotion, his 
beautiful gray eyes full of eager en- 
treaty and a strange sadness in their 
depths. 

“ Will you impart the motive to me, 
sir ? ” 

No, I cannot,” said Karl. I wish 
I could, but I cannot.” 

I fancy that ^mu must know Sal- 
ter’s retreat, sir — or think you know 
it : and you want to be assured it is he 
befoi’e you denounce him,” spoke the 
detective, hazarding a shrewd guess. 

Karl raised liis hand to enforce what 
he said, speaking solemnl3\ Were I 
able to put my finger this moment upon 
Salter, I would not denounce him. 
Nothing would induce me. You may 
believe me when I say that, in asking 


for this information, I intend no harm 
to him.” 

Tlie detective saw how true were the 
words. There was something in Karl 
Andinnian strangely attractive, and he 
began to waver. 

It is not of much consequence 
whether I give you the information or 
I whether I withhold it,” he resumed. 
‘‘ The fact is this : one of our men who 
knew Salter, thought he saw him some 
three or four months ago. He, our 
man, was on the Great Western Line, 
going to Bath ; in passing a station 
where they did not stop, he saw (or 
thought he saw) Salter standing there. 
He is a cool-judging, keen-sighted offi- 
cer, and I do liot myself think he could 
have been mistaken. We followed up 
the scent at once, but nothing has 
come of it.” 

Karl made no answer: he was con- 
sidering. Three or four months ago ? 
That was about the time, he fancied, 
that Smith took up his abode at Fox- 
wood. Ih'evious to that he might have 
been all over England. 

‘‘Just before that,” resumed the de- 
tective, “another of the men struck up 
a cock-and-bull story that Salter was 
living in Aberdeen. I forget the pre- 
cise reason he had for asserting it : 
but, like the latter tale, it came to noth- 
ing.” 

‘•That is all you know?” asked 
Karl. 

“ Every word. Has the information 
hel[>ed you?” 

“Not in the least degree.” 

There was nothing else ffir Karl to 
wait for. His visit had been a fruitless 
one. “ I would have liked to see 
Grimley once again,” he said as he rose. 
“ Is he in town ? ” 

“ Grimley is in the house now. At 
least he ought to be. He is engaged in 
a case under me, and was to be here at 
three o’clock for instructions. Will 
you see him ? ” 

“If you please.” 

It had occurred to ICarl more than 
once that he should like to describe 
Smith accurately to Grimley, and ask 
whether the description tallied with 
Salter’s. He could do it without af- 


A NEW LODGER IN PARADISE ROW. 


161 


fording any clue to Smith or his lo- 
cal it 3 ^ 

Mr. Burtenshaw rang and told the 
maid to send up Grimle\", if he had 
come. In obedience to tliis, Grimley, 
in his official clothes, appeared, and 
another officer with him. 

^^Oh, I don’t want you just yet, 
Watts,’’ said Mr. Burtenshaw. “Wait 
down stairs.” 

“Very well, sir,” replied the man. 
“ I may as well give you this, though,” 
he added, crossing tlie room and placing 
a small box the size of a five-shilling 
piece on the table. Mr. Burtenshaw 
looked at it curiously, and then slipped 
it into the drawer at his left hand. 

“ From Jacob, I suppose ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

The man left the room : and Karl, 
after a few preliminary words with 
Grimley, gave an elaborate and close 
description of Smith’s figure and fea- 
tures. “Is it like Salter?” he asked. 

“If it isn’t him, sir, it’s his twin 
brother,” was Grimley’s emphatic an- 
swer. “As to his looking fort}", it is 
only to be expected. Nothing ages a 
man like living a life of fear.” 

Karl remembered how Adam had 
aged and was ageing, and silently ac- 
quiesced. He began to think he saw 
his way somewhat more clearly; that 
the man at Foxwood was certainly Sal- 
ter. Handing over a gratuity to Grim- 
ley, and taking leave of Mr. Burten- 
shaw, he departed, leaving the otlier 
two talking of him. 

He has dropped upon Salter,” re- 
marked Grimley. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. Burtenshaw. “ But 
he does not intend to deliver him up.” 

“No!” cried the other in amaze- 
ment. “ Why not, sir?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Mr. Burten- 
shaw. “ He said he had no intention 
of the kind — and lam sure he has not. 
It seemed to me to be rather the con- 
trary-^that he wants to screen him.” 

“ Then he told you, sir, that he had 
found Salter?” 

“ No, he did not. We were speak- 
ing on supposition. I don’t know 
who he is. He keeps his name from 
me.” 


The man Watts had entered the 
room again and heard these few words. 
He looked at Mr. Burtenshaw. 

Are you speaking of the gentleman 
iust £:one out, sir? Don’t you know 
him ? I do.” 

“ Why, who is he ? ” asked IMr. Bur- 
tenshaw, who had taken out the little 
box again, and was opening it. 

“ Sir Karl Andinnian.” 

“Nonsense!” exclaimed the detec- 
tive, aroused to interest. For Sir Karl 
Andinnian, brother to the criminal 
who had made so much stir in the 
world, was a noted name amongst the 
force. 

“It is,” said Watts. “I knew him 
the minute I came in. I was present 
at the trial in Northampton, sir, when 
his brother was condemned to death ; 
this gentleman sat all day at the soli- 
citors’ table. I had gone down there 
on that business of Batteson’s.” 

“ No wonder he has a sad look,” 
thought the detective. “Adam Au- 
di nnian’s was a mournful case, and his 
death was mournful. But what inter- 
est can Sir Kar‘1 have in Salter ? ” 

There was one, at least, who deter- 
mined to ascertain, if possible, what 
that interest was — and that was Mr. 
Policeman Grimley. A shrewd nian 
by nature, a very shrewd one by ex- 
perience, lie drew his own deductions — 
and they were anything but favorable 
to the future security of some of the 
inhabitants of Foxwood. Could Karl 
Andinnian have seen what his morn- 
ing’s work had done for him, he would 
have been ready to sit in sackcloth and 
ashes, after the manner of the mourn- 
ers of old. 

“ Sir Karl’s living at Foxwood Court 
with Ids young wife,” ran JMr. Grim- 
ley’s thoughts. “ Wherever this Salter 
is, it’s not far from him. I’ll lay. Hid 
in Foxwood, and no mistake ! I’ll get 
him unearthed if it costs me my place. 
Let’s see; how shall I set about it?” 

As a preliminary, he gently sounded 
Mr. Burtenshaw ; but found he could 
get no help from him : it was not the 
detective’s custom to stir in any matter 
without orders. Mr. Grimley then 
slept a night upon it, and in the morn- 


10 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


1 G 2 


ini? liaci resolved to strike akold stroke. 
Obtainini; a private interview with one 
who was hii^h in the force at Scotland 
A'ard, he denounced Salter, tellino; of 
Sir Karl Andinnian’s visits to Hurten- 
shaw, and tljeir purport. 

“ Salter is in hiding at Foxwood, or 
somewhere in its neighborhood, sir, as 
sure as that m3" name’s Dick Grimle^",” 
lie said. ‘‘ 1 want him took. I don’t 
care about the reward — and perhaps it 
would not be given to me in anv case, 
seeing it was me that let the fellow go 
— but I want him took. He’s a craft v 
fox, sir, mark 3-011, though ; and it will 
liave to be gone about cautiously.” 

If Salter be retaken through this 
declaration of 3-01.1 rs, Grimle3-, I dare- 
say you’ll get some of the reward,” 
was the consoling answer. Who 
knows the man? It will not do for 
you to go down.” 

‘‘ Xo, it wouldn’t,” acquiesced Grim- 
ley. “ He knows me ; and, once he 
caught sight of me, lie’d make off like 
a rat sneaking out of a sinking ship. 
Hesides, sir, I couldn’t leave that other 
thing Mr. Hurtenshaw has got in 
hand.” 

Well, who knows Salter, I ask?” 

“Tatton does, sir; knows him as 
well as I do ; hut Salter does not know 
Tatton. Tatton would be the best 
man for it, too. Burtenshaw him- 
self can’t manage a case like Tatton 
does when it comes to personal acting.” 

There was a little more conversation, 
and then Grimley withdrew, and Tat- 
ton was sent for. The grass could not 
be let grow under their feet in the at- 
tempt to re-take that coveted prize, 
Philip Salter. 

This Tatton had begun life as an 
ordinar3^ policeman: but his talents 
raised him. He was smart in appear- 
ance and manner, had received a fairl\^ 
good education, conversed well on the 
topics of the dav, (lould adapt himself 
to ari3^ societ3- he might happen to be 
in, from that of a true gentleman to a 
shoe-black, and was found to possess 
the rare prudejice, the certain tact, ne- 
cessary to undertake the conduct of 
delicate cases and bring them to a suc- 
cessful conclusion. Grimle}^ was cor- 


rect, in judging that Tatton would be 
the man to put on the track of Philip 
Salter. 

The sun was drawing towards the 
west, and the summer’s afternoon was 
waning, for the da3-s were not so long 
as they had been a montli or two ago, 
wlien a gentleman, slight ami rather 
short, with light eyes, fair curlv hair, 
and about thirty 3-ears of age, alighted 
from the London train at Foxwood 
station. He had a black bag in his 
hand and a portmanteau in the van, 
and inquired of the porter the wa3^ to 
Foxwood. 

‘‘ Do 3-011 mean Foxwood proper, sir; 
or Foxwood, Sir Karl Andinniaii’s 
place ? ” returned the porter. 

Foxwood proper, I suppose. It is 
a village, is it not ? ” 

“ Yes, sir. Go down the road to the 
left, sir, then take the first turning on 
your right, and it will bring 3-0U into 
Foxwood.” 

Thank 3’ou,” said the gentleman, 
and slip[)ed a small silver coin into 
the [)orter’s hand. He knew, nobod^- 
bettcr, the value of a silver ke3- : and 
the chances were tliat he might another 
da3- get gossiping with this station 
porter about the neighborhood and its 
politics. 

Bag in hand, he speedily found him- 
self in the heart of Foxwood. Casting 
about his e3-es on this side and that, 
they settled on Paradise Bow, on 
which the sun was shining, and on a 
white embossed card hanging in the 
first-floor window of the middle house, 
which card had on it in large letters 
A})artments furnished.” At the 0[>en 
entrance door stood a widow woman in 
a clean cap and. smart black silk apron. 
Mrs. Jinks was en grande toilette. 

“ It looks likelv-,” said the stranger 
to himself. Madame there will talk 
her tongue sore, I see, once prompted.” 
And going up to the door, he politely 
took off his hat as he might to a duch- 
ess. 

“You have apartments to let, I 
think, madam?” 

“ Good gracious ! ” cried ^:he Widow 
Jinks, taken by surprise — for she was 
Old}- looking out for the muflin-boy, 


A NEW LODGER IN PARADISE ROW. 163 


and the slantinj]^ rays of the sun were 
dazzling lier eyes. I beg pardon, 
sir; apartments, did you say? Yes, 
sir, I’ve got inj’ drawing-room just emp- 
tied.” 

It liappened that an elderly ladj^ 
from Basliam and her grand-daughters 
had been lo<]ging there for a month, 
the young ladies being ardent disciples 
of Mr. Cattacofnb ; but tlie}" had now 
left, and the drawing-room was ready | 
to be let again. Mrs. Jinks went on 
to explain this rather volubly. 

‘‘ I will go up and look at it, if you 
please,” said tlie srranger. 

The widow ushered liim along the 
passage towards the stairs, treading 
softly as she passed the parlor door. 

“ I've got a Reverend Gent lodging 
in there,” she said, minister of the 
new church, St. Jerome’s. He has a 
meeting every Thursday evening, for 
Scripture reading, or something of 
that — exercises, I think the3’ call it. 
Tills is Thursday, and they be all ex- 
pected. Rut he wants his tea first, 
and that there dratted muffin-bov’s not 
round yet. The reverend gent have 
dropped asleej) on three chairs in his 
shirt sleeves, while he waits for it.” 

The stranger liked the drawing-room 
very much ; the sun made it cheerful, 
he said, and he liked the bed-room be- 
hind it. Mrs. Jinks rather hesitated 
in letting the two rooms alone. She 
generally let the bed-rooms on the top 
of the house with them. 

“ How long shall you be likel}" to 
stay, sir?” questioned she. 

‘‘ I do not know. It may be a week, 
it may be a month, it ma}" be more. I 
am seeking countrj^ air and rest for 
my health, raahim, and ^ want a quiet 
place to read in. I shall not give you 
much trouble.” 

iMrs. Jinks agreed to let him have 
the rooms at last, demanding a few 
shillings over the usual terms for the 
two: a bird in the hand, she thought, 
was worih two in the bush. Next she 
asked for references. 

“ I cannot refer you to any one here,” 
he said, for I don’t know a soul in 
the place, and not a soul in it knows 
me. I will pay you every week in ad- 


vance ; and that I presume will do as 
well as references.” 

He laid down the sum agreed upon 
and a sovereign beside it. You will 
be so good as to get in for me a few 
things to eat and drink, Mrs. Jinks. I 
should like to have some tea first of 
all, if convenient, and one of those 
muffins 3^11 spoke of. Well buttered, 
if 3^011 please.” 

^W’^es, sir; certainly, sir. We get 
muffins at Fox wood all the 3"ear round, 
sir, on account of there being companv’- 
in the place at summer time. But- 
tered muffins and cress, sir, is uncom- 
monly good together.” 

Are they ? I’ll have some cress 
too.” 

Telling her, as well as he could re- 
member, what things he should want 
got in, besides butter and muffins, and 
bidding her to add an3Thing else that 
she thought he might want, he picked 
up his black bag to take it into the 
bed-room. Mrs. Jinks in her polite- 
ness begged him to let her take it, but 
he said certainly not. 

“ Is it all the luggage 3mu’ve got, 
sir, this?*’ 

My portmanteau is at the station. 

I could not order it on until I knew 
where I should be; or, in fact, whether 
I shou.d stay at Foxwood at all. Had 
I not found lodgings to 1113^ mind, 
ma’am, I might have gone on some- 
where else.” 

“ Foxwood’s the loveliest, healthiest 
spot yi)u can find, sir,” cried the widow, 
eagerl3\ Sweet walks about it, there 
is.” 

“ So I was told by my medical man. 
One wants nice rural walks, Mrs. Jinks, 
after reading hard.” 

“So one does, sir. You are reading 
up for college, I suppose ? I liad a 
3’oung gent here once from Oxford. He 
got plucked, too, afterwards. There’s 
the muffiii-l)03" I ” added Mrs. Jinks, in 
delight, as the fierce ring of a bell and 
the muffin-call was heard beneath. 

“ 0 , I beg pardon, sir, what name?” 

The gentl.eman, who had his head 
and hands ju'st then in Ids bag, merel3’’ 
responded that he was a stranger. 3 Irs. 
Jinks, ill the hurry to be gone, and 


164 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


confused with the ringing and tlie 
calling below, caught up the answer as 

Strange.*’ 

•• A ^Mr. Strange,” she said to lier- 
self. going down with the money in lier 
liand. “ And one of the nicest gents 
I ever come across. ‘ Put plenty o’ 
butter,’ says lie. He ain’t one as ’ll 
look sharp after every crumb and odd 
end, as too many of ’em does, and say 
where’s the rest of this, that it don’t 
come up, and where’s the remainder of 
tliat.” 

IMrs. Jinks had a young help- mate 
when slie was what she called in ‘‘full 
let ; ” a 3mung damsel of fourteen, who 
wore her hair in a pink net. Sending 
the girl flying to the general shop for 
various things, she set on to toast the 
muffins ; and tea was speedily served 
in both rooms. Mr. Cattaconib was 
asleep on the three chairs, in his shirt 
sleeves. He was beginning to find his 
work somewhat hard. Wiiat with the 
duties in the church, the services, and 
sermons, and confessions, and the du- 
ties out of church connected with little 
Doys and girls, and with those anxious 
Christians who never left him alone, 
the young ladies, Mr. Cattacomb was 
often considerably^ fatigued ; and it was 
under consideration whether Ins for- 
mer coadjutor, Peverend Damon Puff, 
should not be summoned to assist him. 

“ Here’s 3’our tea, sir,” said Mrs. 
Jinks, “and a beautiful hot muffin. 
Couldn’t get it up afore, for the muffin- 
bo3^ was late.” 

“ My tea, is it, Mrs. Jinks ? ” 
replied IMr. Cattacomb, slowly rising. 
“Thank you. I am dead tired.” 

And perhaps in consequence of the 
fatigue, or that jMrs. Jinks was not 
worth an3’ display, it might have been 
observed that the affectation, so char- 
acteristic of the reverend gentleman 
when in societ3q liad entirely disap- 
peared now. Indeed, it seemed at this 
undress moment that Mr. Cattacomb 
was a simple mannered, pleasant man. 

“ I’ve been in luck this afternoon. 
Sir, and have let my drawing-room 
floor,” continued the widow, as she 
settled the tea-tra3^ before him. “It’s 
a Mr. Strange, Sir, that’s took it ; a 


gent reading for Oxford, and out of 
health. His doctor have ordered him 
into the countiy for change, and told 
him he’d find quiet and nice walks at 
Foxwood. You may hear bis boots 
walking about overhead. Sir. He's 
as nice and liberal a gent as ever I had 
to do with.” 

“ Glad to hear it,” said Mr. Catta- 
comb. “ We shall want more chairs 
here presentl3q you know, iMrs. Jinks.” 

The tea-tray had scarcely disappear- 
ed, and Mr. Cattacomb put on his coat 
and his fascinating company manners, 
before the company began to arrive. 
On these Thursday evenings IMr. Cat- 
tacomb gave at his own home, a private 
lecture, descriptive of some of the 
places mentioned in holy Scripture. 
They were attended b3" all his flock at 
St. Jerome’s and b3^ several 3’oung 
ladies from Pasham. Of course it 
necessitated a great many seats ; and 
the new lodger above was 3’et at his 
tea, when i\Irs. Jinks appeared, her 
face redder than usual with running 
about, and begged the loan of “ Mr. 
Strange’s ” chairs, explaining what 
they' were wanted for. 

“ Oh, certainl3' : take them all, IMrs. 
Jinks,” replied he, in the most ac- 
commodating manner possible. “ I 
can sit upon the table.” 

Mrs. Jinks left him one, however, 
and went down with the rest. He 
found out she had taken up the 
notion that his name was “ Strange,” 
and laughed a little. 

“ Some misunderstanding on her 
part when I said I was a stranger,” 
thought he. “ All right j I’ll not con- 
tradict it.” 

While the bumping and thumping 
went on, caused by the progress of 
chairs down from the chambers and up 
from the kitchen, and the knocker and 
the bell kept up a perpetual duet, IMr. 
Strange (we will call him so at present 
ourselves) [)ut on his liat to go round 
and order his portmanteau to be sent 
from the station. As he passed the 
parlor door, it stood open ; no one was 
looking his wayq and he had a good 
view of the interior, taking in the 
scene and the details with his obser- 


NURSE CHAFFEN ON DUTY. 


163 


vfint eyes, A comfortable room, con- 
taining a dozen or two charming and 
chattering ladies, and a perfect epitome 
of tasty and luxurious objects that had 
been worked b3’ fair fingers. Cush- 
ions, anti-macassars, slippers, scrolls, 
drawings surrounded by leather frames, 
ornamental mats in dozens, cosies for 
tea-pots, lamp shades and stands, flow- 
ers in wax under shades, sweet-flowers 
from hot-houses in water, and other 
things too numerous to mention. 

A man beset, that clerg^mian,” 
thought Mr. Strange, with a silent 
laugh. ‘‘ He should get married, and 
stop it. Perhaps he likes it, though : 
some of them do who have more van- 
ity" than brains.’’ 

So he ordered his portmanteau to 
No. 5 , Paradise Row, contriving to 
leave the same impression at the sta- 
tion that he had given Mrs. Jinks — a 
reading man in search of quiet and 
health. 

Mrs. Jinks presided at the arrival 
of the portmanteau, and saw some 
books taken out of it. While her 
lodger’s back was turned, she took the 
libert}' of peeping into one or two of 
them, and, finding their language was 
what she could not read, supposed it 
to be Greek or Latin. Before the 
night was over, all Paradise Row, up- 
wards and downwards, had been re- 
galed with the news of her new lodger, 
a ‘^scholar-gent, by name of Strange, 
who had come down to read and get 
up his health, and had brought his 
Greek and Latin books with him.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


NUKSE CHAFFEX OX DUTY. 

How short a period of time may 
serve to bring forth vital chances and 
changes. Sir Karl and Lady Au- 
di nni an? were absent onlj’- a week, 3’et 
before the}^ returned a stranger had 
taken up his abode at Fox wood, indi- 
rectly brought to it b3- Karl himself; 
and something had happened at the 
Maze. 

Lucy was out amidst her plants and 


shrubs and flowers the evening of 
her return, when the shadows were 
lengthening on the grass. Karl was 
writing letters indoors; IMiss Blake 
had hurried up from dinner to go to ves- 
pers. In spite of the estrangement and 
misery that pervaded the home atmos- 
phere, Luc3Gelt glad to be there again. 
The meeting with her husband after 
the week’s entire separation, had caus- 
ed her pulse to quicken, and her heart 
to bound with something that was 
ver3^ like jo3\ Colonel Cleeve was out 
of all danger; nearl3’’ well again. He 
and his wife had pressed Lucy to pro- 
long her sta}", had asked Sir Karl to 
come -and join her ; and they both 
considered it somewhat unaccountable 
that Luc}’’ should have persisted in de- 
clining. Tlieresa was alone at Fox- 
wood, was the chief plea of excuse she 
urged: the real impediment being 
that she and Karl could not sta3" there 
together without risk of the terms on 
which they lived becoming known. 
So Karl, on the daj^ appointed, went 
from London to Winchester, and 
brought Lucy^ home. 

For the forbearance she had exercis- 
ed, the patient silence she had main- 
tained, Luc}^ had in a degree received 
the reward during the sojourn with 
her father and mother. IMore than 
ever it was brought home to her con- 
viction then, that she would almost 
rather die than betray it. It would 
have inflicted on them so much pain 
and shame. It would have lowered 
herself so in their sight, and in the 
sight of those old and 3"oung friends 
who had known her girlhood, and who 
whispered their sense of what her hap- 
piness must now be, and their admi- 
ration of her attractive husband. 
“ Martjn-dom, rather than that ! ” said 
Luc 3", clasping her hands with fixed 
resolution, as she paced the grass, and 
thought. 

Karl came up to her with two letters 
in his hand. She was then sitting un- 
der the acacia tree. The sun had set, 
but in the west shone a flood of golden 
light. The weather in the da3"time 
was still hot as in the middle of that 
hot summer, but the evenings and 


163 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


nights were cool. Lucy’s shawl lay 
besiile her. 

It is time to put it on,” said Karl 
— and lie wrapped it round her himself 
carefully. It caused her to see the ad- 
dress of the two letters in his hand. 
One was to IMunkett and Plunkett ; 
the other to ]\Irs. Cleeve. 

‘•You have been writing to mamma !” 
she exclaimed. 

“She asked me to be sure and let 
ner have one line to say you got home 
safely. I have given your love, Lucy.” 

Thank you, Karl. And now jmu 
are going to the post.” 

‘‘And now I am going to the post. 
And 1 must make haste, or I shall find 
the box shut.” 

He took his hand from her shoulder 
where it had rested, and crossed the 
grass, Lucy looking after him. 

‘•How thoughtful and kind he is !” 
she soliloquized. “ It is just as though 
he loved me.” And her imagination 
went ofi‘ wandering at random, as im- 
agination will. Once more she revert- 
ed to that former possibilit}’ — of con- 
doning the past and becoming recon- 
ciled again. It was very good of him, 
and she felt it so, to have stayed that 
week in London. She fancied he had 
done it that she might know he did not 
go to the Alaze. And so, the evening 
shadows came on, and still Lucy sat 
there, lost in her dreams. 

jMiss Blake, it has been said, had 
hurried from dinner, to attend vespers. 
^A.s she turned into the road she saw a 
boy a little in advance of her on the 
other side, his basket on his arm. It 
was the doctor’s boy, Cris Lumley, 
against whom Miss Blake had a griev- 
ance. She crossed over and caught 
him up just as lie rang at the Maze 
gate. 

“Now, Cris Lumloy, what have you 
to sa}^ for yourself?” For three days 
you have not appeared at class.” 

“’Tain’t my fault,” said Cris Lurn- 
ley who was just as impudent as he 
looked ; a very difierent boy indeed 
from civil-natured Tom Pepp. “It be 
master’s.” 

“ How is it your master’s ? ” 

What master says is this here : “ I 


be to attend to him and my place ; or I 
be to give it up, if I wants to kick up 
my heels all da}^ at school.” 

“ I don’t believe you,” said IMiss 
Blake, ‘*1 shall speak to IMr. ]Moore.” 

“Just do then,” said the indepen- 
dent hov. 

“The fact of the case is no doubt 
this, Cris Lumley — that you play 
truant for half the day sometimes, on 
the plea of being all that while at 
school.” 

“ Master said another thing, lie did,” 
resumed the gentleman, ignoring the 
last a(;casation. “He said as if Par- 
son Sum nor warn’t no longer good 
enough for me to learn religion from, 
he’d get another boy in my place, that 
he was good enough for. There ! you 
may ask him whether he said it or 
net.” 

Declining to bandy farther words 
with him, until she should have seen 
the surgeon. Miss Blake was hastening 
on, when the fringe of her mantle 
caught against his medicine basket. It 
reminded her that some one must be 
ill. Battling for a moment with her 
curiosity", but not for long, she conde- 
scended to inquire who was ill at the 
Maze. 

“ It be the mistress,” replied Cris. 

“ The mistress ! Do you mean Mrs. 
Grey?” 

Mr. Lumley nodded. 

“ AVhat is the matter with her?^^ 

“ Got a baby,” said the boy shortlj". 

For the instant jMiss Blake was 
struck dumb. She did not believe it. 

“He were born yesterday,” added 
the bojn “ This be some physic for 
him : and this be the missi.s’s.” 

Throwing back the lid of one end of 
his basket. Miss Blake saw two bottles, 
done up in white paper. The larger 
one was addressed “ Mrs. Grey,” the 
small one “ Mrs. Grey’s infant.” 

She turned away without another 
word, feeling ready to sink with the 
weight of the world's inicuiitv. It 
pressed upon her most unpleasantly 
throughout the evening service at St. 
Jerome’s, and for once Miss Blake was 
inattentive to the exhortations of the 
liev. Guy. 


NURSE CHAFFEN OX DUTY. 


167 


To return to Lucy. It grew dusk 
and more dusk ; and she at length 
went in-doors. Karl came in, bring- 
ing Mr. Moore, whom he had overtaken 
near the gate : and almost close upon 
that, Miss Blake returned. The sight 
of the doctor, sitting there with Karl 
and Lucy, brought back all Miss 
Blake’s indignation. It had been at 
boiling point for the last hour, and 
now it bubbled over. The wisest 
course no doubt would have been to 
hold her tongue : but her righteous 
condemnation forbade that. There 
could be no fear of risking Jane Shore’s 
sheet of penance in repeating this. It 
was her duty to speak : she fully be- 
lieved that : her duty to open Lucy’s 
obtuse eyes — and who knew but that 
Sir Karl might be brought to his sens- 
es through the speaking ? The sur- 
geon and Lucy were sitting near the 
window in the sweet twilight; Karl 
stood back by the mantel-piece. 

I — I have heard some curious 
news,” began Miss Blake in a low, re- 
luctant tone, having waited for some 
discussion about dowers to die away. 

I heard it from that boy of yours, 
Mr. Moore. He says there’s a bab}’' 
at the Maze.” 

Yes,” readily acquiesced Mr. 
Moore. A baby-boy, born yester- 
day.” 

And Miss Blake, standing at angles 
between the two, saw a motion of 
startled surprise on .the part of Karl 
Andinnian. Lucy looked up simplj" 
not understanding. After a pause, 
during which no one spoke. Miss 
Blake, in language softened to ambig- 
uousness, took upon herself to intimate 
that, in her opinion, the Maze had no 
business with a baby. 

Mr. Moore laughed pleasantly. 

That, I imagine, is Mrs. Grey’s con- 
cern,” he said. 

Luc\y understood now; she felt 
startled almost to sickness. Is it 
Mrs. Grey who has the bab}" ? ” was 
on the point of her tongue ; but she 
did not speak it.” 

^Vhere is Mrs. Grey’s husband?” 
cried uncompromising Miss Blake. 

“ In London, I fancy, just now,” 
said the doctor. 


Has she one at all^ Mr. Moore ? ” 

“ Good gracious, yes,” cried the 
hearty-natured surgeon. ‘‘I’d answer 
for it with my life, nearly. She’s as 
nice a young lady as I’d ever wish to 
attend, and good too.” 

“ For Lucy’s sake. I’ll go on ; for 
his sake, standing there in his shame,” 
thought Miss Blake, in her rectitude. 
“ Better things may come of it : other- 
wise I’d drop the hateful subject for 
ever.” 

“ Mr. Moore,” she added aloud, 
“Why do you say the husband is in 
London ? ” 

“Because Mrs. Grey said something 
to that effect,” he answered. “At 
least, I understood her words to imply 
as much ; but she was very ill at the 
moment, and I did not question fur- 
ther.” 

“It has hitherto been represented 
til at Mr. Grey was traveling abroad,” 
pursued Miss Blake, with a tone and a 
stress on the “ Mr.” Grey. 

“ I know it has. But he may have 
returned. I am sure she said she had 
been up to London two or three weeks 
ago — and I thought she meant to im- 
ply that she went to meet her husband. 
It may have been a false conclusion I 
drew ; but I certainly thought it.” 

Sir Karl took a step forward. “ I 
can answer for it that Mrs. Grey did 
go up,” he said, “ for I chanced to 
travel in the same carriage with her. 
Getting into the uptrain at the station 
one day, I found Mrs. Grey sealed 
there.” 

Lucy glanced towards him as he 
spoke. There was no embarrassment 
in his countenance ; his voice was 
eas}^ and open as though he had spoken 
of a stranger. Her own face looked 
white as death. 

“ You did ! ” cried the doctor. 
“ Did she tell 3^011 she was going up to 
meet Mr. Grey ? ” 

“Xo, she did not. I put her into a 
cab at the terminus, and that’s all I 
know about it. It was broiling hot, 1 
remember.” 

“ Well,” resumed the doctor, 
“ whether it was to meet her husband 
or whether not, to London she went 
for a dav or two in the broiling heat — 

^ O 


16S 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


as Sir Karl aptl}' terms it — and she 
managed to fatigue herself so much 
that she has not felt well since, and 
has never been able to get over the 
fatigue. This young gentleman, who 
chose to take upon himself to make 
Ihs aj^pearance in the world yesterday, 
was not due for a couple of months to 
come.’^ 

Lucy rose and left the room, she and 
her white face. Karl followed her 
with his eyes : he had seen the white- 
ness. 

“ Is it a healthy child ? ” he asked. 

‘‘ Quite so,’’ replied the surgeon ; 

but very small. The worst of these 
little monkeys is, you can’t send them 
back again with a whif)ping, when 
the^" make too much haste, ’and tell 
them to come again at proper time. 
Mrs. Grey’s very ill.” 

Is she ! ” cried Karl. 

‘‘Yes. And there’s no nurse and 
no anything; matters are all at sixes 
and sevens.” 

“I hope she’ll do well!” breathed 
Karl. 

‘‘ So do I.” 

!Miss Hlake looked at the two speak- 
ers. The one seemed just as open as 
the other. She thought what a linish- 
ed ade[)t Karl Andinnian was getting 
to be in deception. 

The doctor took his leave. He was, 
as he told them, on his way to the 
IMaze then. Karl went with him to 
the outer gate, and then paced the 
lawn in the evening twilight. 

“After all, it is well it’s over,” ran 
his thoughts. “ This expected illness 
was always putting itself in view when 
I was planning to get away Adam. 
Once Hose is well again, the ground 
will be, so far, clear. But good heav- 
ens 1 how it increases the risk ! Here’s 
iMoore going in at any hour of the day 
or night, I suppose — and Adam so in- 
cautious ! Well, I think he will take 
care and keep in seclusion for his own 
sake. And for myself — it brings more 
complication,” he added with a sigh. 
“The child is the heir now instead of 
me : and the whole propert\’ must 
eventually come to liirn. Boor Lucy ! 
J saw she felt it. Oh, she may well 
be vexed ! Hoes she quite con»pre- 


hend, I wonder, who this baby is, and 
what it will take from us? — Boxwood 
amidst the rest ? I wish I had never 
married ! I wish a merciful heaven 
had interposed to prevent it.” 

When ]\Ir. IMoore, some eight-and- 
fort}^ hours previously, received a hur- 
ried visit from iMrs Grey’s servant, 
Ann Hopley, at the dusk of evening, 
and heard what she had to say, he was 
excessively astonished, not having had 
the slightest idea that his services 
would be wanted in any such way at 
the jMaze. It is possible that some 
doubts of j\Trs. Grey‘s position crossed 
his mind at the moment : but he was 
a good man, and he made it a rule 
never to think ill if he could b}" possi- 
bility^ think good; and when he came 
to see Mrs. Grey, he felt sure she was 
all she should be. The baby was born 
on the following morning. Since then, 
the doctor, as Karl expressed it, had 
been going in at all hours : Ann Hop- 
ley invariably^ pieceding him through 
the maze, and conducting him out of 
it again at his departure. 

Tliree or four days went on. The 
doctor passed in and out, and never a 
notion entered his head that the IMaze 
was tenanted by any" save its ordinary 
inmates, or that one under a ban was 
lying there in concealment. Ann 
Ho|)ley, letting her work go how it 
would, attended on her mistress and 
the baby ; the old gardener was mostly 
busy in his garden as usual. On the 
fifth or sixth day", when Mr. Moore 
paid his morning visit, he found !Mrs. 
Grey" worse. There were rather dan- 
gerous sy"mptoms of fever. 

“ Has she been exciting herself? ” 
he privately" asked of Ann Hopley". 

“ She did a little last night, sir,” 
was the incautious admission. 

“ What about?” 

“Well, sir — chiefly talking.” 

“Chiefly talking!” rei»eated the 
doctor. “ But what were you about to 
let her talk ? Wdiatever possessed y'ou 
to talk to her ? ” 

Ann Hopley- was silent. She could 
have said that it was not with her Mrs. 
Grey" had talked, but with her hus- 
baml. 

“ I must send a nurse in,” he re- 


NURSE CHAFFEN ON DUTY, 


169 


Slimed. ^^Not only to see that slie is 
kept quiet, but to attend to her con- 
stantly. It is not possible that you 
can be with her always with j’our 
housework to do.” 

But all of this Ann Hopley most 
strongly combated. She could attend 
to her mistress, and would, and did at- 
tend to her, she urged, and a nurse she 
would not have in the house. From 
the first, this question of a nurse had 
been a bone of contention : the doctor 
wanting to send one in ; Ann Hopley 
and also Mrs. Grey strenuously object- 
ing. So once more the doctor yielded, 
and let the matter drop, inwardlj^ re- 
solving that if his patient did not get 
better during the day, he should take 
French leave to pursue his own course. 

Late in the afternoon he went in 
again. Mrs. Grey was worse : flushed, 
restless, and slightly delirious. The 
doctor said nothing; but when he got 
liome, he sent a summons for Mrs. 
Cliaffen. A skilled nurse, she; and 
first cousin to the Widow Jinks, both 
in respect to kin and to love of gossip. 

That same evening after dark, when 
Adam Andinnian was sitting in his 
wife’s room, and Ann Hopley was con- 
cocting something in a saucepan over 
the kitchen fire, the gate bell clanged 
out. It had been nothing unusual to 
hear it these last few days at any hour ; 
and the woman, putting the saucepan 
on the hob for safety, went forth, key 
in hand. 

No sooner had she unlocked the 
gate than IMr. Moore brushed past her, 
followed by a little thin woman with a 
bundle. Ann tiopley stared: but 
never a w’ord said he. 

Keep close to me, and you won’t 
lose yourself,” cried he to the little 
woman ; and went tearing off at a 
double-quic'k pace through the intrica- 
cies of the maze. 

Ann Hople}^ stood like one bewilder- 
ed. For one thing, she had not pos- 
sessed the slightest notion that the 
surgeon knew his wa\" through,^ for he 
had given no special indication of it, 
always having followed her. He could 
have told her that he had learnt the 
secret of the maze long before she 


I came to Fox wood. It had been 
i shown to him in old Mr. Throcton’s 
time, whom he had attended for years. 
And, to see a second person pass in, 
startled her. All she could do was to 
lock the gate, and follow them. 

On went the doctor; the little wo- 
man keeping close to liis coat tails; 
and they were beyond the maze in no 
time. In, at the open j)ortico, passed 
he, and made direct for the stairs. 
Ann Hopley, miles behind, could only 
pray in agony that her master might 
escape their view. 

But he did not. The doctor had 
nearly reached the top of the staircase,, 
when a gentleman, tall, and in eve- 
ning dress, suddenly presented himself 
in fi-iint, apparently looking who it 
might be, coming up. He drew back 
instantly, strode noiselessly along the 
corridor, and disappeared within a door 
at its extreme end. It all passed in a 
moment of time. What with the 
speed, and what with the obscurity of 
the stairs and passages, any one, less 
practical than the doctor, might have 
questioned whether or not it had hap- 
pened at all. 

That’s Mr. Grey, come down,” 
thought he. ‘‘But he seems to wish 
not to be noticed. Be it so.” 

Had he cared to make any remark 
upon it to Mrs. Grey, he could not, for 
she was quite delirious that night. 
And, as he saw no further sign of the 
gentleman at any subsequent visit, he 
mereh" supposed that Mr. Grey had 
come down for a few hours and had 
gone again. And the matter passed 
from his mind. 

It did not so pass from the nurse’s. 
Mrs. Chaffen had distinctly seen the 
gentleman in evening attire looking 
down the stairs at her and the doctor ; 
she saw him whisk away, as she phras- 
ed it, and go into the further room. 
In the obscure light, Mrs. Chaffen 
made him out to be a very fine-looking 
gentleman with beautiful white teeth. 
She had keen eyesight and she saw 
that much : she had also a weakness 
for fine-looking men, and felt glad that 
one so fine as this should be in the 
house. It could not make much difter- 


170 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


ence to her ; hut slie liked gentlemen 
to be in a dwelling where she might be 
located : they made it livel}’, and were 
j)leasant to talk to. Like the doctor, 
she supposed this was Mrs. Grey’s 
husband, come down at last. 

She neither saw nor heard more of 
the gentleman that night, though she 
sat up with her jjatieut. Neither did 
she on the following da\" — and then she 
began to think it somewhat odd. At 
dusk, when Mrs. Grey and the baby 
were both sleeping, she went down 
stairs. 

Ann llopley’s directions to her had 
been ‘^Hing for everything 3’ou want, 
and I will bring it up:” her meals 
also were brought punctually". Hut 
nurses are human. Mrs. Chaffen was 
longing for a word of social gossip, 
and down stairs she went, and made 
her way to the kitchen. Ann Hopley 
was in it, ironing at a table under the 
window. 

‘•What do 3"ou want?” cried she 
in a quick, startled tone, as the nurse 
aj)peared. 

“ I thought I’d get 3^011 to give me 
a sup 0’ beer, Mrs. llopley,” was the 
answer. “ I’m a’most faint, stopping 
so long in that there room with its 
smell of ether about.” 

Why^ could you not have rung ? 
I’ll bring it up to you.” 

In the very" teeth of this plain inti- 
mation, Mrs. Chaffen sat herself down 
on a chair by the ironing board, and 
began fanning her face with a corner 
of her white apron. ‘‘The missis is 
asleep,” she said: “she’s a sight bet- 
ter to-night; and I shall stop here 
while I drink the beer for a bit of re- 
lief and change.” 

Ann lIo[)le3^ took a small jug that 
was hanging on the dresser shelves, 
went down in the cellar, brought up 
the beer and poured it into a tumbler. 
7*1 rs. Chaffen took a good draught and 
smacked her lips. 

“That aint bad beer, is it, ]\Irs. 
Hopley ? ” 

“ Not at all,” said Ann Hopley. 
“ Lrink it up.” 

She would not go on with her iron- 
ing, lest it might seem like an excuse 


for the nurse to linger; she stood by 
the fire, waiting, and evidently’ want- 
ing her gone. 

“ Your husband’s a taking of it easy, 
out there ! ” 

Ann glanced from the window, and 
saw the gardener seated amongst a 
heap of drying weeds, his back against 
the tool house, and a pipe in his moutb. 

He has done his work, I suppose, 
] for the day,” she said. 

“And he knows his missis’s eyes 
can’t be upon him just now,” added 
the nurse, taking another draught. 
“ He don’t hardly look strong enough 
to do all this here big garden.” 

“ You couldn’t offend Hopley worse 
than by" telling him that. His mis- 
tress say"s nothing about it now, it puts 
him up so. Last IMay when he was 
laid up in bed with the rheumatis, she 
ordered a gardener in for two or three 
days to clear up some of the roiujh 
work. Hopley" was not at all grateful : 
he only" grumbled at it when he got 
about again.” 

“ It’s just like them good old-fash- 
ioned servants that takes })ride in their 
work,” said the nurse. There’s not 
many" of the young uns like ’em. Is 
that a hump, or only" a stoop of the 
shoulders ? ” continued she, ignoring 
good manners. 

“ It used to be only" a stoop, Mrs. 
Chaffen. But those things, you know, 
always get worse with years.” 

]\Irs. Chaheii nodded. “And gar- 
dening work, when one has a natural 
stoop, is tlie worst sort of work a man 
can take to.” 

“True,” assented Ann. She had 
spoken absently all along, and kept 
glancing round and listening as though 
ill at ease. One might have fancied 
she feared a ghost was coming down 
the staircase. 

“What be y"ou a harkening at?” 
asked Mrs. Chaffen. 

“ For fear the baby" should cry.” 

“The baby’s in a sweet sleep, he is. 
I wonder wliether he’ll get reared? — 
he’s very little. Where’s the gentle- 
man ? ” abruptly" inquired Mrs. Cliaf- 
fen after a pause. 

“ What gentleman ? ” 


NURSE CHAFFEN ON DUTY. 


171 


^^Mrs. Grey’s husband. Him we 
saw liere last 

If Ann Ho[)]ey had been apathetic 
before, she was fully aroused t) inter- 
est now, and turned her eyes upon the 
nurse with a long stare. 

“ Why what is it that you are talk- 
ing of? ” she asked. “ There has been 
no gentleman here. Mrs. Grey’s hus- 
band is abroad.” 

But I sa.w him.” persisted the 
nurse. ‘‘He. stood right at the head 
of the staircase when me and Doctor 
Moore was a going up it.” 

Then they went at it, asserting and 
re-asserting. Nurse Chaffen protest- 
ing, by all that was truthful, that she 
did see the gentleman : Ann Hopley 
denying in the most emphatic language 
that any gentleman had been there, or 
could have been. Poor woman! in her 
faithful zeal for her master’s safety; 
in her terrible inward fear lest this 
might bring danger upon him, she 
went so far as to vow by heaven that 
no living soul had been in the house or 
about it, save her mistress and the in- 
fant, herself and Hopley. 

The assertion had its effect. . Nurse 
Chaffen was not an irreligious woman, 
though she did indulge in unlimited 
gossip, and love a glass of beer when 
she could get it ; and she could not be- 
lieve that a thing so solemnly asserted 
was a lie. She felt puzzled to death ; 
her eyes were good and never played 
her false yet. 

Have* ye got a ghost in the 
house?” she asked at length, edging 
a little nearer to the ironing board and 
to Ann Hopley. 

“ I have never seen or heard of one.” 

“ It’s a rare old place, this house. 
Folks said all kinds of queer things 
about it in Miser Throcton’s time.” 

“ He left no ghost in it, that I know 
of,” repeated Ann Hopley. 

“ Well I never I I can’t make it out. 
You miglit a’most as soon tell me to 
believe there’s no truth in the Bible. 
He stood atop o’ the stairs, looking 
down at me and the doctor. It was 
dusk, I grant ; a’most dark ; but I saw 
liini as plain as plain could be. He 
had got white teeth, and a suit of black 


on; and he went off into that door 
that’s at the fur end of the passage.” 

A keen observer might have de- 
tected a sleeping terror in Ann Hop- 
lej^’s eyes ; but she was habituallj" of 
calm manner and she showed perfect 
calmness now, knowing how much was 
at stake. A great deal had all along 
depended upon her ready presence of 
mind, her easy equanimity in warding 
off suspicion : it depended more than 
ever on her at this trying time, and she 
had her wits at hand. 

“ Your eyes and the dusk must have 
misled you, Mrs. Chaffen,” she quietly 
rejoined. “ Is it possible — I put it to 
^murself — that any gentleman could be 
in this house, and me and Hoplej" not 
know it? That night I had run down 
from my mistress’s room, where she was 
lying off her head with the fever and 
the baby asleep in its little bed by the 
fire, and was making 'a drop of gruel 
in the kitchen here, when the ring at 
the gate came. I had a great mind to 
send Hopley to open it : I heard him 
out yonder putting up his tools for the 
night : but I should have to go close 
up to him to make him understand, for 
he’s as deaf as a post: and his knees 
would have been a long, while making 
their way through the maze. So 1 went 
myself: it seemed less trouble; and 
I let in you and the doctor. As to any 
soul's having been in the place, save 
me and Hopley and the missis and 
baby, it’s a moral impossibility : and if 
necessary I could swear to it.” 

“ Where do that there end door lead 
to?” questioned j\Irs. Chaffen^ 
half convinced — and that against her 
will. 

“ It leads to nowhere. It’s a sit- 
ting-room. Mrs. Grey does not oft n 
use it.” 

“ Well, this beats everything, this 
do. I’m sure I could have swore that 
a gentleman was there.” 

“ It was a mistake. Hark I there is 
the baby. ’ 

Nurse Chaffen flew up the stairs. 
Ann Hopley went on with her ironing; 
her face, now that she was alone, allow- 
ing its terror scope. 

“ It is so foolisii of my master to run 


172 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


ri<kp jnst at tliis time, when tlie house 
is liable to he itivaded by strangers!’’ 
sl) .^ ejaculated wearily. ^’Hut who was to 
foresee the doctor would come bursting 
in like that? Pray Heaven master 
doesn’t do it again while that woman 
is here.” 

Mrs. Chaffen sat in the sick room, 
the awakened baby occupying her lap, 
and the problem her mind. Never in 
all her life had she felt to be in so en- 
tire a mist. Ann Ho[)le3^ she could 
not and would not disbelieve : and 3^et, 
in her reasoning moments she was as 
fully persuaded that a gentleman had 
been there, and that she had seen him, 
as that the sun shone in the fiky. 

A day or two went on ; and the sub- 
ject was never out of the woman’s 
mind. Now leaning to this side of the 
question, •now wavering to that, she 
•could not arrive at an3' positive con- 
clusion. I^ut, taking one thing with 
another, she thought the house was 
rather a strange house. Why did Ann 
Hoplev" want to keep her for ever in 
that one room ? — as she evidently did 
want — and preyen t her from moving 
freel3^ about the house? An unfortu- 
nate doubt took possession of her — was 
there a gentleman in the house, after 
all ; and, for some reason or another, 
keeping himself concealed ? Unfortu- 
nate, because it was to bear unpleasant 
fruit. 

Be whipped if it is not the most 
likel3^ solution o’ the matter I’ve 
thought of 3’et!” cried she, striking her 
hand* on tb.e tall fender. But how 
do he manage to 'hide himself from 
Ann HoT)ley ? — and how do he get his 
victuals ? Sure-^y she can’t have been 
deceiving me ! She’d not be so wicked.” 

From that time Mrs. Chaifen looked 
curiousl3" about her, poking and peer- 
ing around whenever she had the op- 
portunity. One morning in particular, 
when !Mrs. Grey was asleep, and she 
saw Ann go out to answer the butch- 
er’s bell, a dish in her hand to receive 
the meat, and Hopley was safe at the 
end of the garden, for she could hear 
liim rolling the path there, jMrs. Chaf- 
fen made use of the occasion. She went 
along the passage to the door where 


the gentleman had disappeared, and 
found herself in a dull sitting-room 
wainscoted with mahogany, its wide, 
modern window looking to the maze. 
Keenl3^ Mrs. Chatten’s eyes darted 
about the room : but there was no 
^other outlet that she could see. The 
dark paneling went from the door to 
the window, and from the window 
round to the door again. After that, 
she made her way into the small an- 
gular passages that the house seemed 
to abound in : two of them were bed- 
rooms with the beds made up, the 
others seemed to be out of use. None 
of them were locked : the doors of most 
of them stood open: but certainly in 
not one of them was there any trace of 
a hidden gentleman. 

That same da3" when she liad finish- 
ed her dinner, brought up to her as 
usual, she hastily put the things to- 
gether on the tray and darted off with 
it down stairs. Mrs. Grey feebly 
called to her; but the nurse, conve- 
nientl3^ deaf, went on without hearing. 
The staircase was angular, the turnings 
were short, and IMrs. Chaffen, as she 
went through the last one, gave the 
tray an inadvertent knock against the 
wall. Its plates rattled, its glasses 
jingled, betraying their approach : and 
— if she ever heard a bolt slipped in 
her life, she felt sure she heard one 
slipped inside the kitchen door. 

“It’s me, Mrs. Hopley, with the 
tray,” she called out, going boldly on. 
“ Open the door.” 

No answer. No signs of being 
heard. Everytliing seemed perfectly 
still. Mrs. Chaften managed to lodge 
the tray against the door-post and hold 
it steady with one hand, while she tried 
the door with the other. But she could 
not open it. 

“ Mrs. Hopley, it’s me with the tray. 
Please open.” 

It was opened then. Ann Hopley 
flung it wide and stood there staring, a 
saucepan in her hand. “ What, have 
you brought the things down!” she 
exclaimed in a voice of sur[)rise. “ Why 
on eartli couldn’t you have let them he 
till I came up?” 

The nurse carried her tray onwards, 


WATCHING THE HOUSE. 


173 


and put it on the board under the win- 
dow. At the table, not having been 
polite enough to his wife to take off 
Ids flapping straw hat in her presence, 
sat the gardener, munching his dinner 
as toothless people best can, his back 
to the light. 

Why did you keep me waiting at 
the door?^^ asked the nurse, not 
pleased. 

“Did you wait?” returned Ann 
Hopley. “ I was in the back place 
there, washing out the saucepans. You 
might have come in without knock- 
ing.” 

“ The door was bolted.” 

“ The door bolted ! — not it,” disputed 
Ann. “The latch has got a nasty 
trick of catching, though.” 

“ This is fine weather, Mr. Hopley !” 
said the nurse, leaving the point un- 
contested, and raising her voice. 

He seemed to be, as Ann had for- 
merly expressed it, as deaf as a post. 
Neither turning his head nor answer- 
ing, but kept on at his dinner. Ann 
bent her head to his ear. 

“ The nurse, Mrs. Ciiaffen, spoke to 
3'ou, Hopley. She says what fine 
weather it is.” 

“ Ay, ay, ma’am,” said he then ; 

“ fine and bright.” 

What more might have passed was 
stopped by the ringing of Mrs. Grey’s 
bell ; a loud, long, impatient peal. The 
nurse turned to run. 

“ For pity’s sake don’t leave her 
again, Mrs. Chaffeni” called out Ann 
Hopley with some irritation. “ If you 
do, I shall complain to Mr. Moore. 
You’ll cause the fever to return.” 

“ I could be upon my oath that she 
slipped the bolt to keep me out,” 
thoiiglit the nurse, hurrying along. 

“ Drat the cross-grained woman ! Does 
she fear I shall poison her kitchen ? ” 


CHAPTER XXV. 

WATCHING THE HOUSE. 

Mrs. Jinks’s new lodger, Mr. 
Strange, was making himself at home, 
not only at Mrs. Jinks’s, but in the 
village generally, and gradually getting 


familiar with its stories and its politics. 
Talking with the men at the station 
one hour, chatting with the field labor- 
ers the next; stepping into the shops 
to buy tobacco, or paper, or lozenges, 
or what not, and sta3dng a good 
twenty minutes before he came out 
again : Mr. Strange was ingratiating 
himself with the local world. 

But though he gossipped freely 
enough without doors and with Mrs. 
Jinks within, he did not appear anx- 
ious to cultivate intimacy with the 
social sphere ; but rather avoided it. 
The Rev. Mr. “^Catt acorn b, relying on 
the information that the new lodger 
was a gentleman reading for Oxford, 
had taken the initiative and made an 
advance to acquaintanceship. Mr. 
Strange, while receiving it with per- 
fect •civilit}^ intimated that he was 
obliged to decline it. His health, he 
said, left him no alternative, and he 
had come to the country for entire 
quiet. As to his reading for Oxford, it 
was a mistake, he hinted. He was 
reading; but not with a view of going 
to any college. After that, the gentle- 
men bowed when they chanced to meet 
in the passages or out of doors, ex- 
changed perhaps a remark on the fine 
weather ; and there it ended. 

The reailer has not failed to detect that 
this “ Mr. Strange,” the name caught 
up so erroneously bv Mrs. Jinks, was in 
reality the shrewd detective officer sent 
down from Scotland Yard in search of 
Philip Salter. His instructions were, 
not to hurrj^ matters to an abrupt con- 
clusion and so miss his game, but to 
track out Salter patiently and prudent- 
ly^ A case on which he had been re- 
centl}^ engaged had been hurried and 
lost. Circumstances connected with it 
had caused him to lose sight of his 
usual prudence: he thought he was 
justified in doing what he did, and 
acted for the best: but the result 
proved him to have been wrong. No 
fear, with this failure on his mind, and 
the (‘aution of his masters in his ears, 
that he would be in over much hurry 
now. In point of tact he could not if 
he would, for there was nothing to 
make hurry^ over. 

For some time not a trace of any 


174 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


kind could !Mr. Strange find of Philip 
Salter. People witli wlioni he gos- 
sipped talked to him without any re- 
serve ; he was sure of that ; and he 
would artfully lead the conversation 
and twist it the way he pleased ; but 
he could hear nothing of any one likely 
to be Salter. The iiiiin might as well 
never have been within a hundred 
miles of Foxwood ; for the matter of 
that, he might as well never have 
had existence, for all the trace there 
was left of him. Scotland Yard, how- 
ever, was sure that Salter was to be 
found not far off, and that was enough : 
]\Ir. Strange, individual!}", felt sure of 
it alsA 

Knowing what he had been told of 
the visits of Sir Karl Andinnian to 
Detective Burtenshaw, and their ob- 
ject, Mr. Strange’s attention was es{)e- 
cially directed to Foxwood Court. Be- 
fore he had been three days in the 
place, he had won the heart of Giles 
the footman (much at liberty just then, 
through the temporary absence of his 
master and mistress) and treated him 
to five glasses of best ale at different 
times at different public-houses. Giles, 
knowing no reason for reticence, freely 
described all he knew about Foxwood 
Court: the number of inmates, their 
names, their duties, their persons, and 
all the rest of it. Not the least idea 
penetrated his brain that the gentle- 
man had any motive for listening to the 
details, save the whiling away of some 
of the day’s idle hours. Tliere was 
certainly no one at the Court that 
could be at all identified with the miss- 
ing man ; and, so far, Mr. Strange had 
lost his time and his ale money. Of 
course he put questions as to Sir Karl’s 
movements — where he went to in the 
day, what calls he made, and what he 
did. But Giles could give no informa- 
tion that was available. 

In short — from what he could gath- 
er from Giles and otliers, there was no 
one whatever in or about Foxwood, 
then or in time past, that at all an- 
swered to Philip Salter. He heard 
Mr. Smith spoken of — Smith tlie 
agent, an old friend of the Andinnian 
family ” — but it did not once occur to 


him to attempt to identify him with 
the criminal. Smith the agent (whom 
by the way Mr. Strange had not chanc- 
ed yet to see) was living openly in the 
place, going about amid the tenants on 
the estate, appearing at church, alto- 
gether transacting his business and 
pursuing his course without conceal- 
ment : that is not how Salter would 
have dared to live, and the detective 
did not give Smith a suspicious thouglit. 
No : wherever Salter might be he was 
evidently in strict concealment; and it 
must be Mr. Strange’s business to hunt 
him out of it. 

In the meantime, no speculation 
whatever had been aroused in the vil- 
lage as to Mr. Strange himself. He 
had taken care to account for his stay 
there at the first onset, and people’s 
minds were at rest. The gentleman in 
delicate health was free to come and 
go ; his appearance in the street, or 
roads, or fields, excited no more conjec- 
ture or observation than did that of tlie 
oldest inhabitant. The Reverend ^Ir. 
Cattacomb was stared at whenever he 
appeared in consequence of the pro- 
ceedings at St. Jerome’s; Mr. Strange 
passed along in peace. 

Still, he learnt nothing. Sir Karl 
and Lady Andinnian had returned 
home long and long ago ; he often saw 
them out, together or separately as 
might be. Sir Karl sometimes driving 
her in a beautiful little pony-chaise ; 
but he could learn no trace of the man 
he was after. And whether he might 
not have thrown up the game in a short 
time for utter lack of scent, cannot be 
told. A clue — or what he thought a 
clue — arose at last. 

It arose, too, out of a slight misfor- 
tune that happened to himself. En- 
tering the house one evening at dusk 
before the passage lamp was lighted, he 
chanced to put his foot into a tray of 
wine-glasses, that the young maid had 
incautiously placed on the fioor outside 
the parlor-door. In trying to dart 
back and save the glasses, Mr. Strange 
slipped, went down with his right hand 
upon the tray, broke a glass or two, 
and cut his hand in three or four pla- 
ces. Miss Blake was there at the time, 


WATCHING THE HOUSE. 


175 


helping to catechise some young child- 
ren : she felt really sorry for the mis- 
hap, and kindly went upstairs to the 
drawing-room to see its extent. The 
hand was in a bowl of warm water, 
and Mrs. Jinks was searching for linen 
to bind it up. 

Why do you put it into water, 
Mr. Strange?^’ she asked. ‘‘It will 
make it bleed all the more.’^ 

“ Some bits of glass may have got | 
in,” he replied. 

“ Will you have Mr. Moore ? ” 

But he laughed at the notion of 
sending for a doctor to cut fingers, and 
he bound up the hand himself, saying 
it would be all right. The next day, 
in the afternoon, Miss Blake made her 
appearance in his room to inquire how 
the damage was progressing, and found 
Mrs. Jinks in the act of assisting him 
to dress it with some precious ointment 
that she vowed was better than gold, 
and would not fail to heal the cuts in a 
day or two. 

Miss Blake had previously a speak- 
ing acquaintanceship with Mr. Strange, 
having often met him going in and 
out. She sat down ; and the three were 
chatting amicably when they were 
pounced in upon b}^ little Mrs. Chatfen. 
Happening to call in to see her cousin 
and hearing from the maid downstairs 
what Mrs. Jinks was then engaged up- 
on — dressing the gentleman’s hand — 
the nurse ran up to offer her more ex- 
perienced services. 

She took the hand out of Mrs. Jinks’ 
into her own, and dressed it and bound 
it up as well as Mr. Moore himself 
could have done. It was nearly over 
when, by a curious coincidence — curi- 
ous, considering what was to come of 
it — the conversation turned upon 
ghosts. Upon ghosts, of all things in 
the world ! Some noise had been heard 
in the house the previous night by all 
the inmates — which noise had not been 
in any way accounted for. It was like 
the falling down of a piece of heavy 
furniture. It had awoke Mr, Catta- 
comb ; it had awoke Mrs. Jinks ; it had 
startled Mr. Strange, who was not 
asleep. The history of this was being 
given to Miss Blake, Mr. Strange 


gravely asserting that it could have 
been nothing but a ghost — and that 
set Mrs. Chaffen on. She proceeded to 
tell them with real gravity, not assum- 
ed, that she did believe a ghost, in tho 
shape of a gentleman in dinner dress, 
haunted the Maze: or else that her 
eyes were taking to see visions. 

It should be mentioned that after a 
week’s attendance on Mrs. Grey, Nurse 
1 Chaffen had been discharged. The pa- 
tient was then going on quite well : 
and, as Mr. Moore saw that it worried 
her to have the nurse there — for whom 
she seemed to have conceived an insur- 
mountable dislike — he took her away. 
The summary dismissal did not please 
the nurse : and she revenged herself 
by reporting that the Maze had got a 
ghost in it. As a rule, people laughed 
at her and thought no more about it : 
this afternoon her tale was to bear dif- 
erent fruit. 

She told it consecutively. How she 
had been quite flurried b^^ being called 
out by Dr. Moore all on a sudden ; how 
he had taken her straight off to the 
Maze without saying where she was 
going till she got to the gate ; how she 
and the doctor had seen the gentleman 
at the top of the stairs (which she took 
it to be the sick lady’s husband) and 
watched him vanish into an end room, 
and had never seen the least sign of 
him afterwards ; how the servant, Mrs. 
Hopley, had vowed through thick and 
thin that no gentleman was, or had 
been, or could have been in the house, 
unbeknown to her and Hopley. 

Nurse Chaffen talked away to her 
heart’s content, enlarging upon points 
of her story. Not one of them interrupt- 
ed her : not one but would have listen- 
ed with interest had she run on until 
midnight. Mrs. Jinks from her love of 
marvellous tales ; the detective because 
he . believed this might be the clue he 
wanted to Philip Salter; and Miss 
Blake in her resentful condemnation 
of Sir Karl Andinnian. For, that 
the “gentleman in dinner dress” was 
no other than Sir Karl, who had stolen 
in on one of his secret visits, she could 
have staked her life upon. 

“A tall gentleman with dark hair, 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


176 

you say it looked like ? questioned 
Mr. Strange indifferently. 

Tall for certain, sir. As to bis 
hair, I don’t know ; it might have 
been darkish. I see he had nice white 
teeth.” 

^•Salter had good teeth,” was the 
mental comment of the detective. 
have found hiinP 

“And in dinner dress?” added 
IMiss Hlake with a cough. 

“ So it looked like, ma’am. The sort 
of coat that gentle folks wears.” 

“ And you mean to say you never 
see him after ; never but that there 
one time?” interposed Widow Jinks. 

“ Never at all. The rooms was all 
open to daylight while I was there, 
but he wasn’t in never a one of ’em.” 

“ Then I tell you what, Betsey Chaf- 
fen ; it was a ghost, and jmu need not 
hesitate to sa}^ it.” 

“Well, you see he didn’t look like a 
ghost, but like an ordinary gentleman,” 
confessed iMrs. Chaffen. “ What came 
over me was, Ann Hopley’s standing it 
out that neither ghost nor gentleman 
was there : she said she’d take her oath 
to it.” 

“ Thank you, you’ve done my hand 
up beautifully, Mrs. Chaffen. I should 
give my credence to the ghost theoiy. 
Did Mr. Moore see the appearance of 
this gentleman ? ” 

Yes, he did, sir. I’m sure he did. 
For he lifted his head like at the gen- 
tleman, and stood still when he got to 
the top of the stairs, staring at the 
room he had vanished into. I. told him 
a day or two afterwards that Mrs. Hop- 
ley denied that any one had been there, 
and the doctor quietly said, ‘ Then we 
must have been mistaken.’ I did not 
like to ask whether he thought it was 
a ghost.” 

“ Oh I think you may depend upon 
the gliost,” returned Mr. Strange, bit- 
ing his laughing lip. 

“ Well, sir, queer stories was told of 
that jMaze house in the late tenant’s 
time. My cousin Jinks here knows 
that well enough.” 

“It was haunted by more than one 
ghost then, if all folks told true,” as- 
sented Mrs. Jinks. “ Mr. Throcton’s 


son — a wild young blade he was — 
hung hisself there. 1 was but a girl 
at the time.” 

“ Ah, one of the old ghosts come 
back agaim; not been laid yet,” sol- 
emnly remarked the detective, staring 
at IMrs. Chaffen. “ Did the lady lier- 
self seem alarmed ? ” 

“ Well, sir, T can’t say she did then, 
because she couldn’t have seen it and 
was too ill. But she had got a curious 
manner with her.” 

“ Curious ? ” questioned IMr. Strange. 

Yes, sir, curious. As if she was 
alwa 3 ’s frightened. When evervthing 
was as still as still could be, she’d seem 
to be listening like, as though expect- 
ing to hear something. Now and then 
she’d start up in bed in a fright, and 
cry out what was that? — when there 
had been no noise at all.” 

“ Feverish fancies,” quietly remark- 
ed iMr. Strange, with a cough. 

By and by, the party separated. As 
Nurse Chaffen was descending to the 
kitchen, leaving IMrs. Jinks putting 
the room to rights. Miss ]51nke, who 
had gone down first, put forth her 
hand and drew the nurse into Mr. Cat- 
tacomb’s parlor; that reverend man 
being absent on some of his pastoral 
calls. 

“ I have been so much interested in 
this that you have been telling us, 
nurse,” she breathed. “It seems quite 
to have taken hold of me. What was 
the gentleman like ? Did he resemble 
any one 3 mu know — Sir Karl Andin- 
nian, for instance ?” 

“ Why, ma’am, how can I tell who 
he resembled ? — I didn’t get enough 
look at him for that,” was the answer. 

“ I saw his head and his tails — least- 
ways the back tails of his coat when 
he turned — and all. Except his teetli : 
I did see them.” 

“ And they were white teeth — good 
teeth ? ” 

“ Oh beauties. W’’hite and even as 
a die.” 

“Sir Karl’s teeth are white and 
even,” nodded IMiss Blake to herself. 
“ Had IMrs. Grey an 3 ^ visitors while 
you were there, nurse ? ” 

“Never a one. Never a soul came 


WATCHING THE HOUSE. 


177 


inside the gates, good or had, but the 
doctor. I don^t fancy the lady has 
luade friends in the place at all, rna’ara. 
She likes to keep herself to herself, Ann 
Hopley thinks, while Mr. Grey’s away.” 

‘^Oii naturally,” said Miss Blake. 
And she dismissed the woman* 

The Widow Jinks had a surprise 
that night. Mr. Strange, hitherto so 
quiet and well conducted, asked for the 
latch-key ! She could not forbear a 
caution as she gave it him : not to stay 
out too late on account of his health. 
He laughed pleasantly in answer; say- 
ing he expected a friend down by the 
last train from London, and might stay 
out late with him. 

But he never went near the station, 
and he met no friend. Keeping as 
much in the shades of night as tlie 
very bright moon allowed him to do, 
Mr. Strange arrived by a roundabout 
wa}'- at the gate of the Maze, and let 
himself in with a master-key. 

“ The dolt I was, never to have sus- 
pected this shut-in-place before!” he 
exclaimed. “Salter is lying here in 
concealment: there can be no doubt of 
it : and if his career’s at an end he may 
thank his own folly in having allowed 
himself to be seen by the woman 
Ciiaffen. Wonder who the sick ladj^ 
is? Perhaps his wife : perhaps not. 
And now — how to get through this 
maze that they talk of? Knowing 
something of mazes, I daresay I shall 
accomplish it without trouble.” 

And he did. His keen intelligence, 
sharpened no doubt by experience, 
enabled him to hit upon the clue. 
He got through the maze; he regarded 
the house from all points ; he pene- 
trated to the outer path or circle, and 
went round and round it: he made, so 
to ^ say, the outer premises his own. 
Then lie went through the maze to the 
house again. 

It lay quietly steeped in the moon- 
light. He stood back over the lawn 
against the laurel trees that were be- 
yond the flower beds, and gazed at it. 
In one of tlie rooms a night-light was 
burning faintly, and he fancied he 
could hear the continuous wail of an 
infant. To make sure whether it was 
11 


so, or not — though in truth it mattered 
not to him, and was a very probable 
thing to happen — he stood forward a 
little on the lawn : but as that broiio-ht 
him into the moonlight, he retreated 
into the shade again. Most of the 
windows had blinds or curtains drawn 
before them ; the only one that had 
none was the casement over the portico. 
IMr. Strange stood there as if rooted to 
the spot, making his silent observa- 
tions. 

^‘Yes; that’s where my gentleman 
is lying concealed, safe enough ! Safe 
enough as he thinks. There may be 
some difficulty in as safely unearthing 
him. He’d not dare to be here with- 
out facilities for guarding against sur- 
prise and for getting away on tlie first 
sound of the alarm bugle. This is a 
queer old house : there may be all 
kinds of/ hiding places in it. I must 
go to work cautiously, and it may be a 
long job.” 

The moon was beginning to wane 
when the detective officer with his false 
key got out again : and he thought he 
had l)is work tolerably well cut out to 
his hand. 

The faint wailing had not been 
fancy. For the first week or two of 
the child’s life it had seemed to thrive 
well, small though it was; but, after 
that, it began to be a little delicate, 
and would sometimes wail as though in 
pain. On this night the*’child — who 
slept with its mother — woke up and 
began its wail. Ann Hopley, whom 
the slightest noise awoke, hearing that 
her mistress did not seem to be able to 
soothe it left her own bed to try and do 
so. Presently, in going to fetch some 
medicine, she had to pass the casement 
window in the passage ; the one that 
was uncurtained. The exceeding 
beautj^of the night struck her, and she 
paused to look out upon it, the old 
black shawl she had thrown on being 
drawn closely round her. The grass 
shone in the moonlight ; some of the 
leaves of the laurels flickered wlnte in 
its ra3"s. At that self-same moment, 
as the woman looked, some movement 
directed her attention to these very 
laurels : and to her utter horror she 


178 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


saw a raan standing there, apparently 
watching tlie house. 

The sickness of intense fear seized 
npon lier as she drew aside — but the 
black shawl and the small diamond 
panes of the casement window had 
prevented her from being observed. 
Her first impulse was to rush on 
through the j)assages and arouse Sir 
Adam Andinnian. Her second im- 
pulse was to wait and watch. She re- 
membered her master’s most dangerous 
Her}" temperament, and the pistols he 
kept aways loaded. This intruding 
man might be but some wretched night 
marauder, who had stolen in after the 
fruit. Watching there, she saw him 
presently go round in the direction of 
the fruit-trees, and concluded that her 
surmise was correct. 

So she held her tongue to her mas- 
ter and mistress. The latter she would 
not alarm ; the former she dared not, 
lest another night he should take up 
his stand at the window, pistol in hand. 
Two things puzzled her the next morn- 
ing: the one was, how the man could 
have got in ; the other, that neither 
fruit nor flowers seemed to have been 
taken. 

This same day, upon going to the 
gate to answer a ring, she found her- 
self confronted by a straiige gentle- 
man, who said he had called, hearing 
the house was to let, and wishing to 
look at it. Ann Hopley thought this 
rather strange. She assured liim it 
was a mistake : that the house was not 
to let, that Mrs. Grey had no inten- 
tion of leaving. When he rather press- 
ed to go in and just look at the house, 
“ in case it should be to be let later,” 
she persisted in denying him admit- 
tance, urging her mistress’s present 
sick state as a reason for keeping out 
all visitors. 

Is Mr. Grey still at home ? ” then 
asked the applicant. 

IMr. Grey has not been at home,” 
replied Ann Hopley. ‘‘My mistress is 
Oalone.” 

“ Oh, indeed ! Not been here at 
all ? ” 

“ No, sir. I don’t know how soon 
he may be coming. He is abroad on 
Ills travels/^ 


“What gentleman is it, then, who 
has been staying here lately?” 

Ann Hopley felt inwardly all of a 
twitter. Outwardly she was quietly 
self-possessed. 

“ No gentleman has been here at all, 
sir. You must be mistaking the house 
for some other one, I think. This is 
the JMaze.” 

“ A lady and gentleman and two 
servants, I understand, are living 
here.” 

“ It is quite a mistake, sir. iVIy 
mistress and us two servants live here 
— me and my husband — but that’s all. 
Mr. Grey has not been here since we 
came to the place.” 

“Now that’s a disappointment to 
me,” cried the stranger. “I have lost 
sight of a friend of mine, named Grey, 
for the past 3"ear or two, and was hop- 
ing I might find him here. You are 
sure 3’ou don’t know when Mr. Grey 
may be expected ? ” 

“ Quite sure, sir. My mistress does 
not know, herself.” 

The stranger stepped back from the 
gate to take his departure. In man- 
ner he was a ver}^ pleasant man, and 
his questions had been put with easy 
courtes3\ 

“And you are equally sure the 
house is not about to be vacated ? ” 

“ I feel sure of this, that if Mrs. 
Grey had thoughts of vacating it, she 
would have informed me. But in re- 
gard to an3^ point connected with the 
house, sir, you had better appl3^ to the 
landlord, Sir Karl Andinnian.” 

“Thank you ; yes, that ma3" be the 
best plan. Good morning,” he added, 
taking off his hat with something of 
French civilit3^ 

“ Don’t think she is to be bribed,” 
thought he as he walked avva3\ “ At 
least not easily. Perhaps I may in 
time work m3" way on to it.” 

Ann Hopley, locking the gate with 
double strength — at least, in itnagina- 
tion — pushed through the maze with- 
out well knowing whether she was on 
her head or her heels, so entirel3^ had 
terror overtaken her. In the hight 
and shape of this man, who had been 
thus questioning her, she fancied she 
traced a resemblance to the one who 


AN AFTERNOON SERVICE. 


179 


was watching tlie lionse in the night. 
What if tliey wf*re the same? 

“ The eiid is coming ! ’’ she mur- 
mured, clasping lier faithful hands. 

As sure as m}^ poor master is alive, 
the end is coming.’’ 

Not to her master or liis wife, but to 
Karl Andinnian did she impart this. 
It happened that Karl went over to tlie 
jMaz.e that evening. Ann Hopley fol- 
lowed him out when he departed, and 
told him of it amidst the trees. 

It startled h'm in a mo-re painful 
degree even than it had startled her : 
for, oh, what were her interests in the 
matter as compared to his ? 

‘^Inside the grounds! — watcliing 
the house at night !” he repeated with 
a gasp. 

“ Indeed, indeed he was, sir ! But 
I hoped it was only some thief who 
liad come after the fruit: J thought he 
might have got over from the fields by 
means of a high ladder. That would 
liave been nothing. J^ut if this is the 
same man, it means mischief.” 

What was there to do ? W^hat 
could he do? Karl Andinnian went 
out, the question beating itself into his 
brain. Why, there seemed nothing 
for it but to wait and watch. He 
took off his hat and raised his bare 
liead aloft to the summer sky, in which 
some stars were twinkling, wishing he 
was there, in that blessed lieaven above 
where no pain can come. What with 
one tribulation and another, earth was 
growing for him a hard resting-place. 


CHAPTER XXVL 
* 

AT AFTERNOON' SERVICE. 

The still quietness of the Sabbath 
morn shed its peace over Poxwood. 
AVith in the Court of that name — where 
the lawns were green and level, and the 
sweet flowers exhaled their perfume, 
and a tree here and there was already 
putting on its autumn tints — the aspect 
of peace seemed to be more especially 
exhaled. 

The windows of the room stood open. 
Inside one of them the breakfast was 
on the table yet, Miss Blake seated at 


it. Matins at St Jerome’s had been 
unusually prolonged ; and Sir Karl and 
Lrnlj’ Andinnian had taken breakfast 
when she got home. The Reverend 
Damon Puff had come to help Mr. Cat- 
tacornb ; imparting to St. Jerome’s an 
additional attraction. 

While Miss Blake took her break- 
fast, Luc}^ went out amidst her flowers. 
The scent of the migonnette filled the 
air, the scarlet colors of the gerani- 
ums made the beds brilliant. Lucy 
wore a pimple muslin dress with sprigs 
of green upon it — for the weather was 
still that of summer though the season 
was not, and the nightingales were no 
longer heard of an evening. Trinity 
church boasted a set of sweet-toned 
bells, and they were ringing melodiously 
on the air. When the Sacrament was 
administered — the first Sunday in 
each month — they generally did ring 
before service. This was the first 
in September. Lucy stooped to pick 
some mignonette as she listened to 
the bells. She was getting to look 
what she was — worn and unhappy. 
Nothing could be much less satisfac- 
tory than her life: it seemed to herself 
sometimes that she was like a poor 
flower withering for lack of sunsiune. 
For the first time for several weeks she 
meant, that day, to stay for the after 
service : her mind had really been in 
too great a chaos before : but this week 
she had been schooling herself, and 
praying and striving to be tranquil. 

Karl came round the terrace from 
his room and crossed the lawn. In his 
hand he held a most exquisite rose,. and 
offered it to her. She thanked him as 
she took it. In manner they were 
always courteous to one another. 

What a lovely day it is!” she 
said. “ So calm and still.” 

And not quite so hot as it was a 
few weeks ago,” he replied. Those 
must be IMr. Sumnor’s bells.” 

Yes. I wish they rang every Sun- 
day. 1 think — it may be all fancy, 
but I can’t help thinking it — that peo- 
ple would go to church more heartily 
if the bells rang for them as they are 
ringing now, instead of calling them 
with the usual ding-dong.” 

“There is something melancholy in 


180 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


tlie ringincr of bells/’ observed Karl, 
ill abstraction. 

“But when the heart is in itself 
melancholy the melancholy of the 
bells brings to it a feeling of soothing 
consolation,” was Lucy’s hasty answer. 
And tlie next moment she felt sorry 
that she had said it. Never, willingly, 
did she allude to aught that could 
touch on their estrangement. 

“ Talking of church, Lucy,” resum- 
ed Karl, in a different and almost con- 
fidential tone, “ I am getting a little 
annoyed about that place, St. Jerome’s. 
They are going too far. I wish you 
would speak a word of caution to 
Theresa.” 

“I — I scarcely like to,” answered 
Luc 3 " after a pause, her delicate cheek 
faintl}' flushing, for she was conscious 
that she had not dared to talk much 
on any score with Theresa latel}", lest 
Theresa might allude to the subject of 
the Maze. “ She is so much older and 
wiser than I am — ” 

“Wiser?” interrupted Karl. “I 
think not. In all things, save one, 
}’ou have fen times the good plain 
sense that she ha<?. That one thing, 
Lucy, 1 shall never be able to under- 
stand, Qi- account for, to my dying da}'.” 

“And, moreover, 1 was going to 
add,” continued Lucy, flushing a deep- 
er red at the allusion, “ 1 am quite 
sure that Theresa would not heed me, 
whatever 1 might say.” 

“ WTil, I don’t know what is to be 
done. People are mocking at St. Je- 
rome’s and its frequenters’ folly more 
than 1 care to hear, and blame me for 
allowing it to go on. I should not like 
to be written to by the Bishop of the 
dliocese.” 

“ You written to ! ” cried Lucy in 
surprise. 

“It is within the range of possibili- 
ty. The place is on the Andinuian 
land.” 

“ I think, were I you, I would speak 
to IMr. Cattacomb.” 

Karl made a wry face. He did not 
like the man. 'Moreover he fancied — 
as did Lucy in regard to Miss Blake 
' — that whatever he might say would 
make no impression. But for this he 


had spoken before. But, now that 
another was come and the folly was 
being doubled, it lay in his duty to re- 
monstrate. The whole village gossip- 
ed and laughed ; Sir Adam was furious. 
Ann Hopley carried the gossip home 
to him — which of course lost nothing 
in the transit — and he abused Karl for 
not interfering. - 

They went to church together, Karl 
I and his wife. It was a thinner coimre- 
gation than ordinary. Being a grand 
field day at St. Jerome’s with proces- 
sion and banners, some of them had 
gone off thitlier. Kneeling by her 
husband’s side in their pew, Lucy felt 
the influence of the holy place, and 
peace seemed to steal down upon her. 
Margaret Sumnor was opposite, looking 
at her; and in Margaret’s face there 
was a strange, pitying compassion, for 
she saw that that other face was be- 
coming sadder day by day. 

It was a plain good sermon : Mr. 
Sumnor’s sermons always were : its 
subject the blessing promised for th^ 
next world; its text, “And God shall 
wipe away all tears from their eyes.” 
The tears rose to Lucy’s eyes as she 
listened. Karl listened too, rapt in 
the words. Just for the quai^r of an 
hour it lasted — the sermons were al- 
ways short the first Sunday in the 
month — both of them seemed to have 
passed beyond their cares into Heaven. 
It almost seemed to matter little what 
the trouble of this short span on earth 
might be, with that glorious fruition 
to come hereafter. 

“I am going to stay,” whispered 
Lucy, as the service ended. 

Karl nodded but made no other an- 
swer. The congregation filed out, and 
still he sat on. Lucy wondered. All 
in a moment it flashed u[)on her that 
he also must be going to stay. Her 
face turned crimson : the question, was 
he fit for it, involuntarily suggesting 
itself. 

He did stay. They knelt side by 
side together and received the elements 
of Christ’s holy Ordinance. After 
that, Karl was on his knees in his pew 
until the end, buried as it seemed in 
beseeching prayer. It was impossible 


AN AFTERNOON SERVICE. 


181 


for Lucy to believe that be could be 
living an ill life of an}^ kind at that 
present time — whatever he miglit have 
done. 

Fie held out his arm as they quitted 
the church, and she took it. It was 
not often that she did. Thus they 
walked home together, exclianging a 
sentence or two between whiles. Karl 
w^ent at once to his room, saying he 
should not take anything to eat : he 
bad the headache. Miss Blake had 

snatched a morsel,’^ and had gone 
out again to hear the children’s cate- 
chism, Hewitt said. One thing must 
be conceded — that she was zealous in 
her duties. 

And so liucy was alone. She took 
a morsel ’’ too, and went to sit under 
the acacia tree. When an hour, or so, 
had passed, Karl came up, and sur- 
prised her with tears on her cheeks, 
ft it any new grief?’’ he asked. 

^‘No,” she answered, half lost in the 
sorrow her thoughts had been aban- 
doned to, and neglecting lier u§,ual re- 
ticence. “I was but thinking that I 
am full young to have so much unhap- 
piness.” 

“We both, have enough of tliat, I 
expect. I know I have. But yours is 
partly of 3^111* own making, Lucj^ ; 
mine is not.” 

“ Not of his own making!” ran her 
thoughts. ‘‘Of his own planning, at 
any rate.” But she would not sa3^ a 
word to mar the semi-peace which per- 
vaded, or ought to pervade, their hearts 
that dav.” 

“That was a nice sermon this morn- 
ing,” he resumed, sitting down by her 
on the bench. 

“Very. I almost forgot that we 
were not close to heaven : that we had, 
speaking according to earth’s probabil- 
ities, years and 3^ear3 and 3"ears to live 
out liere first.” 

“ We shall have to live them out, 
Lucy, I suppose — bj^ heaven’s will. 
The prospect of it looks an3^thing but 
consolator}".” 

“ I thought you seemed very sad,” 
she remarked in a very low tone. “ I 
had no idea 3mu were going to sta}".” 

He laid his hand upon 


her knee ; not, in any particular affec- 
tion, but to give emphasis to his word. 
“Sad is not the terra for it, Lucy. 
Miseiy, rather; dread; despair — the 
wrarst word you. will. I wished with a 
yearning wish that I was in Mr. Su ra- 
il or’s heaven — the heaven he described 
— if only some others would go before 
me, so that I did not leave them here.” 

Lucy wondered of whom he spoke. 
’She thought it must lie betwen herself 
and Mrs. Gre3^ Karl had been think- 
ing of his poor proscribed brother, for 
whom the glad earth could never open 
her arms freely again. 

“I think what !Mr. Sumnor said 
must be true,” resumed Lucy. “ That 
the more sorrow we have to en- 
dure in this* world, the brighter will 
be our entrance to the next. I arn 
sure he has a great deal of sorrow him- 
self: whenever he preaches of it he 
seems to feel it so deepl3^” 

Karl appeared not to hear. He was 
gazing upwards, a look of patient pain 
on his pale. face. There were moments 
— and this was one — when Luc3"’s arms 
and heart alike yearned to encircle him, 
and ask for his love to be hers again. 
She cared for him still — oh, how much ! 
— and wished she could awake to find 
the Maze, and all the trouble connected 
with it, a hideous dream. 

They sat on, saying nothing. The 
birds sang as in spring, the trees waved 
gently beneath the blue sky, and the 
green grass was grateful for the eye 
to rest upon. On the handsome house 
lay the glad sun : not a sound of every- 
day labor, indoors or out, broke the 
stillness. All was essentially peace. 
Except — except within their own wea- 
ried breasts. 

The bell of Trinity church rang out 
for service, arousfng Luc3^ from her re- 
verie. She said she would like to at- 
tend it. 

“ What ; this afternoon ? ” exclaim- 
ed Karl. “ You are not accustomed to 
go in the afternoon.” 

That was true. The heat of the su nir 
mer weather had been almost unbearable 
and Luc}^ had not ventured to church 
in it more than once a day. 

“ It is cooler now,” she answered. 


182 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


‘‘ And I always like to go if I can 
wlieii I have stayed for the commu- 
nion.’’ 

But Karl held hack from it : rather, 
Jjiioy th()ught, in an unaccountable 
manner, for he was ever ready to second 
any w’sh of hers. He did not seem 
inclined to go forth again, and said, as 
a [)lcii of excuse, that he preferred to 
retain the impression of the morning’s 
sermon on his mimh rather than let it 
give plaice to an inferior one. His head 
was m-hing badly. 

I do not ask you to come,” said 
Lucy, gently. 1 sliould like to go 
myself, but 1 can go quite well alone.” 

When she came down with her 
things on, however, she found him 
read}^ also ; and they set off together. 

It may be questioned, though, whe- 
ther Lucy would have gone had she 
foreseen what was to liappen. In the 
miildle of the service, while the ‘‘ mag- 
nificat” was being sung, a respectable, 
staid woman entered the church with 
an infant in her arms. A beautifully 
dressed infant. It’s long wliite robe 
elaborately embroidered, its delicate 
blue cloak of surpassing richness, itt^ 
covering veil of lace, dainty as a gossa- 
mer thread. The attire, not often seen 
at Foxwood, caught Lucy’s eye, and 
she wondered who the infant was. It 
seemed to her that she had seen the 
nurse’s face before, and began to ran- 
sack her memory. In an instant it 
dashed on her with a shock — it was 
the servant at the Maze. 

She turned her e 3 "es on her husband : 
not intentionally, but in an uncontroll- 
able impulse. Karl was looking fur- 
tively at the woman and cliild — a red 
flush dyeing his face. Poor Lucy’s 
benefit in the afternoon service was 
over. 

The babj" had come to be baptised. 
Ann Ho[)ley sat down on a bench to 
which she was shown, just underneath 
the Andinnian pew. Towards the close 
of the second lesson, the clerk advanced 
to her, and entered on a whispered col- 
1 )qu}\ Every word of which was dis- 
tinct to Karl and Lucy. 

Have you brought this infant to 
be christened ? ” 


‘‘To be baptised,” replied Ann Hop- 
\ey. ‘‘Not christened.” 

The clerk paused. “It’s not usual 
with us to baptise children unless they 
are so delicate as to render it neces- 
saiy,” said he. We prefer to christen 
at once.” 

“ But this child is delicate,” she 
answered “ M\" mistress, who is her- 
self still veiy ill, has got nervous about 
it and wishes it done. The christening 
must be left until she is better.’’ 

‘* It’s the bab}" at the Maze, I 
think?” 

“Yes. Mrs. Grey’s.” 

The second lesson came to an end. 
]\[r. Sumnor’s voice cease<i, and he 
stepped out of the reading desk to 
perform the baptism. Ann Hopley 
had drawn away the veil, and Lucy 
saw the child’s face ; a fair, sweet, del- 
icate little face, calm and placid in its 
sleep. 

The congregation, a very small one 
alwa^’s in the afteinoon, rose up, and 
stood on tiptoe to see and hear. JMr. 
Sum nor, standing at the font, took the 
child in his arms. 

“ Name this child.” 

“ Cliarles,” was the audible and dis- 
tinct re[)ly of Ann Hople 3 \ 

C}^ Andinnian turned red and wliite ; 
she thought it was, so to sa\^, named 
after her husband. As indeed was the 
case. 

The child was brought back to the 
bench again ; and the afternoon ser- 
vice went on to its close. There was 
no sermon. When Luc}’ rose from her 
knees, the woman and bab\" had gone. 
Karl offered her his arm as the}" quit- 
ted the church, but she would not take 
it. The}" walked home side by side, 
saying never a word to each other. 

'‘'‘That was the reason wiiy he want- 
ed to keep me away from church this 
afternoon ! ” was Lucy’s indignant 
thought. “And to dress it up like 
that I How, how shall I go on, and 
bear ? ” 

But Lucy was mistaken. Karl had 
known no more about it than she, and 
was struck with astonishment to see 
Ann Hopley come in. It arose exactly 
as the woman had seated. During the 


AN AFTERNOON SERVICE. 


183 


I 


nisrlit the child liad seemed so ill that 
its mother had become nervously un- 
easy because it was not baptised, and 
insisted upon its being brought to 
churcli that atternoou. 

Meanwhile iVnn Hopley liad hurried 
homewards. Partl}^ to avoid observa- 
tion, partly because she wanted to be 
back with her mistress. In traversing 
the sliort space of road between the 
Court gates and the ]\Iaze, she encoun- 
tered Miss Blake coming home from 
St. Jerome’s. Miss Blake, seeing a 
baby daintily attired, and not at the 
moment recognizing Ann Hopley in 
her bonnet, crossed the road to inquire 
whose child it was. Then she saw it 
was the servant at the Maze ; but she 
stopped all the same. 

f should like to take a peep at the 
baby, nurse.’’ 

^Ht’s asleep, ma’am, and I am in a 
liurry,” was the answer, given in all 
truthfulness, not in discourtesy; for it 
must be remembered that Ann Hopley 
had no grounds to suspect that this la- 
dy 'took ail}'- special interest in affairs 
at the Maze. “It slept all through its 
baptism.” 

“ Oh it has been baptised, has it ! 
At Mr. Sumnor’s church?” 

“ Yes, at Mr. Sumnor’s. There is 
no other church but that,” added the 
woman, totally ignoring St. Jerome’s, 
but not thinking to give offence there- 
by. 

Miss Blake put aside the lace and 
looked at the sleeping baby. “ What 
is its name, nurse ? ” 

“ diaries.” 

“Oh,” said Miss Blake, the same 
notion striking her, as to the name 
that had struck Lucy. It is Mr. 
Grey’s name 1 suppose — or something 
like it.” 

“Ho, it is not IMr. Grey’s name,” 
replied the woman. 

“ Who is the baby considered like ? ” 
went on Miss Blake, still regarding it. 
“Its father or its mother?” 

“ It’s not much like anybody, that I 
see, ma’am. The child’s too young to 
show any likeness yet.” 

“ I declare that I see a likeness to 
Sir Karl Andianian!” cried Miss 


Blake, speaking partlj^ upon impulse. 
For, in looking whether she could trace 
this likeness, lier fancy seemed to show 
her that it was there. “ What a strange 
.thing, nurse!” 

With one startled gaze into iMiss 
Blake’s eyes, Ann Hopley went off in 
a huff. The suggestion had not been 
palatable. 

“If he’s like Sir Karl, I must never 
j bring him abroad again, lest by that 
1 means suspicion should come to mg 
master,” she tliought, as she took the 
gate key from her pocket and let her- 
self in. “But I don’t believe it can 
be: for I’m sure there’s not a bit of 
resemblance between the two broth- 
ers.” 

“ How plain it all is !” sighed Miss 
Blake, reganling the cross upon her 
ivory prayer-book as she went over to 
the Court. And that ridiculously sim- 
ple Lucy does not see it ! Barternseus 
was blind, and so is she. He could see 
nothing until his ej’es were opened: 
her eyes have been opened and yet she 
will not see 1 ” 

Ho, iMiss Blake, neither could the 
self-righteous Pharisee see, when he 
went into the Temple to thank God 
that he was better than other men, and 
especiall}^ than the poor publican. 

St Jerome’s was prospering. It had 
taken — as Tom Pepp the bell-ringer 
phrased it— a spurt. xV rich maiden 
lad}’ of uncertain age, fascinated by 
the Reverend Guy Cattacomb’s orato- 
ry and spectacles, came over once a day 
in her brougham from Basham, and 
always put a substantial coin in the 
offercory -bag during the service. 

The Reverend Damon Puff found 
favor too. He had a beautiful black 
moustache, which he was given to 
stroke lovingly at all kind of unseason- 
able times, his hair was parted down the 
middle, back and front, and lie had an 
interesting lisp: otherwise he was a 
harmless kind of young man, devoted- 
ly attentive to the ladies, and not over- 
burdened with brains. Mr. Puff had 
taken up his abode for the jii’esent'at 
Basham, and came over in the omni- 
bus. Two omnibus loads of fair wor- 
shipers arrive now daily : there was a 


184 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


frightful scnfflinor amonor them to ^^et 
into the one that contained the parson. 

But, flourishing thougli St. Jerome’s 
was, people were talking about it in 
anything but a reverend manner. Sir 
Xarl Andinniari was blamed for allow- 
ing it to go on unchecked — as he told 
}iis wife. Plad Karl been a perfectly 
free man, unswayed by that inward and 
ever-present dread, he had certainly 
put a stop to it lone: ago, or obliged 
Banner Truefit to do so ; but as it was, 
lie had done nothing. The sensitive 
fear of making enemies swayed him. 
Not fear for his own sake, but lest it 
should in some way draw observation 
on the Maze and on him whom it con- 
tained. When the mind is weighed 
down with an awful secret, danger 
seems to lie in everything, reasonable 
and unreasonable. But Karl found he 
must do something. 

A comic incident happened one day. 
There came a lady to Boxwood Court, 
sending in her card as “Mrs. Brown ’’ 
and asking to see Sir Karl Andinnian. 
Sir Karl found she was from Basham. 
She liad come over to pray him, she 
said with tears in her ej^es, that he 
would put a stop to the goings-on at 
St. Jerome’s and shut up the place. 
She liad two daughters who had been 
drawn into its vortex and she could not 
draw them out again. Twice and 
three times every day of their lives 
did tliey come over to Boxwood, by 
rail, omnibus, or on foot; their whole 
thoughts and days were absorbed hy 
St. Jerome’s : by the services, bj^ clean- 
ing the church, by Mr. Cattacomb’s 
lectures at liome, or in helping Mr. 
Puff’ teach the children. Sir Karl 
replied that he did not know what he 
could do in the matter, and intimated 
very courteously that the more effectual 
remedy in regard to the Miss Browns 
would be for Mrs. Brown to keep the 
young ladies at liome. They would 
not be kept at home, Mrs. Brown said 
with a burst of sobs; they liad learnt 
to set her at defiance: and — she 
begged to hint to Sir Karl — that in 
her opinion it was not quite the right 
thing for a young girl to be closeted 
with a young man, for half an hour at 


a time, under plea of confession, 
though the man did write himself 
priest. What on earth had they got 
to confess, Mrs. Brown wanted to 
know, becoming a little heated with 
the argument; if they’d confess how 
undutiful they were to her, their 
mother, perhaps some good might come 
of it. 

Well, this occurred. Sir Karl got 
rid of Mrs. Brown ; but he could not 
shut his ears to the public shatter; 
and he was conscious that something or 
other ought to be done, or attempted. 
He could not see why people should 
expect that it la}’’ in his hands, and he 
certainly did not know whether he 
could effec’t anything, even with all the 
good will in the world. Mr. Catta- 
comb might civilly laugh at him. Not 
knowing whether any power lay v.dth 
him, or not, he felt inclined to [)ut the 
question to the only lawyer Boxwood 
contained, Mr. St. Henry. 

But oh, what was this petty griev- 
ance to the great trouble ever lying 
upon him ? As nothing. The com- 
munication made to him by Ann Hop- 
ley, of the night watches she had seen, 
of the stranger who afterwards pre- 
sented himself at the Maze gate with 
his questions, was so much addition to 
liis tormenting dread. Just about 
this time, too, it came to his knowledge 
through Hewitt, that inquiries were 
being made as to the Maze. Private, 
whispered inquiries ; not apparently 
with any particular object ; more in the 
way of idle gossip. Who was putting 
them ? Karl could not learn. Hewitt 
did not know who, but was sure of the 
flict. The story told by Mrs. Chaff’en 
of the gentleman she had seen at the 
Maze the night she entered it, and 
“which it was at her wits’ end to know 
whetKer he were a ghost, or not,” was 
circulating round the village and reach- 
ed Karl’s ears, to his intense annoy- 
ance and dismay. Added to all this, 
was the doubt that lay within himself, 
as to whether {Smith the agent was 
Philip Salter, and what his course in 
the matter should be. In his own 
mind he felt persuaded that it was Sal- 
ter, and no other; but the persuasion 


AT LAWYER ST. HE^"RY’S. 


185 


was scarcely sufficiently assured to irl- 
diice liirn to act. He felt tlie danger 
of speaking a word of accusation to 
Smith wrongfully — the danger it might 
bring on his brother — and therefore he, 
in this, vacillated and hesitated, and 
did nothing. 

Do not reproach Karl Andinnian 
with being an unstable or vacillating 
man. He was nothing of the kind. 
But he was living under exceptionable 
circumstances, and there seemed to fee 
risk to his unfortunate brother on the 
left hand and on the right. If by 
chance discovery should supervene 
through an}’’ rash step of his, Karl’s, 
why remorse would never c(?ase from 
racking him to the end of Ifis bitter 
life. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

AT LAWYER ST. , HENRy’s. 

Lawyer St. Hexry sat at his well 
spread breakfast table. He was a lit- 
tle man with a bald head and good na- 
tured red face, who enjoyed his break- 
fast as well as all his other meals. 
Since his nieces had considered it nec- 
essary to their spiritual welfare to at- 
tend matins at St. Jerome’s, the law- 
yer had been condemned to breakfast 
alone. The sun shone on the street, 
and Mr. St. Henry sat in a room that 
faced it. Through the wire blinds he 
could see all the passings and repass- 
ings of his neighbors ; which he very 
well liked to do ; as well as the doings 
of Paradise Row opposite. 

Hallo ! ” he cried, catching sight 
of a face at Mrs. Jinks’s parlor window, 
Cattacomb’s not gone out this morn- 
ing ! Puff must have come over early 
to officiate. Thinks he’ll take it easy, 
I suppose, now he’s got an underling: 
no blame to him, either. The girls will 
be dished for once.” 

Laughing a little at the thought, he 
helped himself to a portion of a tempt- 
ing looking cutlet surrounded with 
mushrooms. This being nearly de- 
spatched, he had leisure to look abroad 
again and make his mental comments. 

There goes the doctor : he’s out 


early this morning. Going to see old 
Etheridge perhaps: wonder liow the 
old fellow is. And there’s mother 
Jinks taking in a sweetbread. Must 
be for the parson’s breakfast. Sweet- 
breads are uncommonly good, too: I’ll 
have one myself to-morrow morning, if 
it can be got. “ Why here comes Sir 
Karl Andinnian ! He is out early, too. 
That young man looks to me as though 
he had some care upon him. It’s a 
nice countenance : very : and if — I de- 
clare he is coming here ! What on 
earth can he want?” 

Sir Karl Andinnian was ringing the 
door-bell. It has been already said 
that the lawyer’s offices were in Ba- 
sham, for which place he generally 
started as soon as breakfast was over. 
Therefore, if any client wished to see 
him at Fox wood, it had to be early in 
the morning or late in the evening. 
This was known and understood. 

Sir Karl was shown in, j\Ir. St. Hen- 
ry glancing at liis breakfast table and 
the three or four dirty plates upon it. 
He liad finished now, and they sat 
down together at the window. Sir 
Karl not to detain him unnecessarily, 
entered at once upon the question he 
had come to ask — Had he, or had he 
l At, power to do anything with St. Je- 
rome’s ? And the lawyer laughed a 
little ; for St. Jerome’s afforded him fun, 
rather than otherwise. 

“ Of course, Sir Karl, if Truefit 
chose to warn them off the land, ho 
could do it,” was the lawyer’s reply. 
“ Not without notice, though, I think : 
I don’t know what the agreement was. 
As to yourself — well I am not clear 
whether you could do anything: I 
should like to see Truefit’s lease first. 
But, if they were shut out of St. Je- 
rome’s to-day, they’d contrive to start 
another place to-morrow.” 

“ That is quite likely,” said Karl. 

My advice to you is this. Sir Karl : 
don’t bother yourself about it,” said 
the easy-going lawyer. “ People ex- 
pect you to interfere ? Never mind 
that : let them expect. The thing will 
die away of itself when winter comes. 
Once the frost and snow set in, the 
girls, silly monkeys, won’t be trapesing 


186 


WITIIIX THE MAZE. 


to St. Jerome’s; neither will they come 
jinketing over by omnibusfiills from 
Jhisham. Wait and shut it up then. 
If you attempt to do it now you will 
meet with wide opposition : by wait- 
ing, you may do it almost without 
any.” 

You really think so, Mr. St. Hen- 
ry ! ’’ 

“ I am nearly sure so,” said tlie 
liearty lawyer. There’s nothing like 
bad weather for stopping expeditions 
of cluvalry. But for having had the 
continuous sunshine the summer lias 
given us, St. Jerome’s would not have 
been the success it is.” 

They have dressed Tom Pepp in a 
conical cap and put a red cross all down 
his back outside,” said Sir Karl. 

The lawyer burst into a laugh. 

I know,” he said. “ I hear of the 
vagaries from my nieces. It’s fun for 
me.” 

‘•But it is not religion, Mr. St. 
Henry.” 

“ I>less me, no. Peligion? The 
girls may give it that name ; and per- 
il aps one or two among them may be 
earnest enough in thinking it so : the 
rest are only after Cattacomb.” 

“ There’s another one now, I hear. 
One Puff. 

“ And a fine puff of wind he is. 
Got no more brains than a gander. 
I’ll see Truefit and inquire what agree- 
ment it was he made them, if you like. 
Sir Karl, but I should certainly recom- 
mend you to leave the matter alone a 
little longer.” 

Sir Karl thought lie would accept 
the advice; and got up to leave. He 
often saw Truefit about the land, and 
could take an opportunity of asking 
the (juestion liimself. As he stood for 
a moment at the window, there passed 
duwn the middle of the street a stran- 
ger, walking slowly, to whom Sir KaiTs 
attention was at once directed. It was 
jMr. Strange. 

Now it happened that Sir Karl had 
never seen this man before — at least, 
he had never noticed him. For the 
detective — being warned b}" Grirnley 
that Sir Karl had, or seemed to have, 
some reason for screening Salter — had 
kept out of Sir Karl’s way. He thought 


it would not conduce at all to his suc- 
cess to let Sir Karl know he was down 
there on the scent. Therefore, when- 
ever he had observed Sir Karl coming 
along — and he had kept his eyes sharp- 
ly keen — he had popped into a shop, or 
drawn behind a hedge, or got over a 
stile into another field. And Karl, in 
his mind’s abstraction, lost in its own 
fear and pain — had not thought of look- 
ing out gratuitously for strangers. But, 
standing up at the lawyer’s window, the 
street close before him, he could not 
fail to observe those who passed up 
and down : and his attention was at 
once drawn to this man. 

“ \Vlio is that ? ” he asked. 

“That! oh that’s a IMr. Strange,” 
said the lawyer, laughing again — and 
in his laugh this time there was some- 
thing significant. “At least that’s his 
name /lere.” 

“ xVikI not elsewhere? ” 

“ I fancy not.” 

“ Is he staying at Foxwood? What 
is he doing here ? ” 

“ He is certainl}^ staying at Fox- 
wood. As to his business, I conclude 
it is something in the private detective 
line, Sir Karl.” 

Mr. Strange, whose attention in pass- 
ing had been directed to some matter 
on the other side of tiie way and not 
to the lawyer’s window, consequently 
he did not know that he was being 
watched, had halted a little lower down 
to speak to the landlord of the Bed 
Lion. All in a moment as Karl look- 
ed at him, the notion flashed into his 
mind that this man bore a strong re- 
semblance to the description given by 
Ann Hopley of the man who had in- 
vaded the Maze. The notion came to 
him in the self-same moment that the 
words of the lawyer fell on his ears — 
“His business, I conclude, is some- 
thing in the private detective line.” 
What with the notion, and what with 
the words, Karl Aiidinnian fell into a 
confused inward tumult, that caused 
his heart’s blood to stop, and then 
course wildly on. Business at Fox- 
wood, connected with detectives, must 
have reference to his brother, and to 
him alone. 

“ A slight-made gentleman with a 


AT LAWYER ST. IIE>;RY’S. 


187 


fair face and light curl}^ hair, looking 
about cliirty/^ had been Ann Hopley’s 
description ; it answered in every par- 
ticular to tile man Karl was gazing 
at; gazing until he watched him out 
of sight. Lawyer St. Henry, naturally 
observant, thought his guest, the baro- 
net, stared after the man as though he 
held some peculiar interest in him. 

Do you know who that man really 
is, Uv. St. Henry ? 

‘‘ Well, I’ll tell you. Sir Karl. Ko 
reason why I should not, for I have not 
been told to keep it a secret. Some 
little time back, m3" nieces grew full of 
the new lodger at Mrs. Jinks’s; the}" 
were talking of him incessantly : A 
gentleman reading divinitj^ ” 

‘‘Why that’s Mr. Cattacomb,’^ in- 
terrupted Sir Karl. “ He lodges at 
Mrs. Jinks’s.’^ 

‘•Kot that ladies’ idiot,” cried the. 
law\"'er rather roughlj". “ I beg your 
pardon, Sir Karl, but the Reverend Guy 
sometimes puts me out of patience. 
This man has the upper rooms, Catta- 
comb the lower. Well, to go on. My 
nieces were always talking of this new 
gentleman, a Mr. Strange, who had 
come to Fox wood to get up his health, 
and to read up for some diviuit}" exam- 
ination. I heard so much about him 
as to get curious myself : it was a new 
face, 3"ou see. Sir Karl, and girls go 
wild over that. One morning, when 1 
was starting for the office, the gig at 
the door, Jane ran out to me. ‘Uncle,’ 
she said, ‘ that’s Mr. Strange com- 
ing down Mrs. Jinks’s steps now: 
you can see him if 3’ou look.’ I did 
look. Sir Karl, and saw the gentleman 
3’ou have just seen pass. His face 
struck me at once as one that I was 
familiar with, though at the moment I 
could not remember where I had seen 
him. , I:; came to me while I looked — 
and I knew him for an officer connected 
with the detective force at Scotland 
Yard.” 

Karl drew" a long breath. He was 
listening greedily. 

“About a \"ear ago,” resumed the, 
law3"er, “ my agent in Loudon, Mr. 
Blair, had occasion to employ a detec- 
tive upon some matter he was engaged 
in. 1 w*as in London for a few daj’s 


and saw the man twice at Blair’s — and 
knew him again now. It was this 
same jMr. Strange.” 

‘‘ And 3"ou say Strange is not his 
right name ? What is the rightone ? ” 

“ Well, I can’t tell you the right one. 
Sir Karl, for I cannot remember it. I 
am sure of one thing — that it was not 
Strange. It was a longer name, and I 
think rather a peculiar name; but I 
can’t hit upon it. He must be down 
here on some private business, and has 
no doubt his own reasons for keeping in- 
cog. I recollect Blair told me he was 
one of the astutest officers in the de- 
tective force.” 

“ Has he recognized you ? ” 

“ He could not recognize me. I don’t 
suppose he ever saw me to notice me. 
Each time that he called on Blair, it 
happened, that I was in the front 
office with the clerks when he passed 
through it. He was not likely to have 
observed me.” 

“ You have not spoken to him, 
then ? ” 

“ Kot I.” 

“And — 3"ou don’t know wdiat his 
business here may be.” 

“ Kot at all. Can’t guess at it. It 
concerns neither 3’ou nor me, Sir Karl, 
and therefore I have not scrupled to tell 
you so much. Of course you will not 
repeat it again. If he chooses to re- 
main unknown here, and pass him- 
self off for a student of divinit}’ — 
doubdess for sufficient reasons — I 
should not be justified in proclaiming 
that lie is a London detective, and so 
possibly ruined liis game.” 

Sir Karl made a motion of acquies- 
cence. His brain was whirling in no 
measured degree. He connected the 
presence of this detective at Foxwood 
with the paragraph that had appeared 
in the newspaper, touching the convict 
at Portland Island. 

“Would there — would there be any 
possibility of getting to know his 
business?” hedreamil}" asked. 

“ Kot the slightest, I should say, 
unless he chooses directl}" to disclose it. 
Why ? Y"ou cannot liave an}’ inter- 
est in it, I presume. Sir Karl, whatever 
it may be.” 

‘* Ko, no ; certainly no,” replied Sir 


/ 


188 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


Karl, awaking to the fact that he was 
on dangerous ground. “ One is apt 
to get curious on hearing of business 
connected with detectives,” he adcied 
laugliihg ; ‘‘as interested as one does 
in a good novel.” 

“ Ay, true,” said the lawyer, unsus- 
piciousl3^ 

“ At Mrs Jinks’s, he is staying, is 
he,” carelessly remarked Karl, turning 
to depart. 

“ At Mrs. Jinks’s, Sir Karl ; got her 
drawing room. Wonder how the Kev. 
Gny would feel if he knew the man 
over his head was a cute detective of- 
ficer ? ” 

“I suppose the officer cannot he 
looking after Aim,” jested Sir Karl. 
“St. Jerome’s is the least sound thing 
I know at Foxwood.” 

The lawj^er laughed a hearty laugh 
as he attended Sir Karl to the door ; 
at which Mr. St. Henry’s gig was now 
waiting to take him into Basham. 

It was not a hot morning, but Karl 
Andinnian took off his hat repeatedly 
on the way home to wipe his brow. 
The dreadful catastrophe he had been 
fearing for his unfortunate brother 
seemed to be drawing ominously near. 

‘‘But for that confounded Smith, 
Adam might have been away before,” 
he groaned. “ I know he might. 
Smith ” 

And there Karl stopped : stopped as 
though his speech had been cut off. 
For a new idea had darted into his 
mind, and he stayed to ponder it. 

Was this detective officer down here 
to look after Philip Salter? — and not 
after Adam at all ? 

A conviction, that it must be so, took 
possession of him ; and in the first 
flush of it the relief was inexpressibly 
great. But he remembered again the 
midnight watcher of the Maze and the 
morning visit following it; and his 
hopes fell back to zero. That this was 
the same man there could remain no 
doubt whatever. 

Passing into his own room, Karl sat 
down and strove to think the matter 
out. He could arrive at no certain 
conclusion. One minute he felt sure 
the object was his brother; the next 
that it was only Salter. 


But, in any case, allowing that it 
was Salter, there must be danger to 
Adam. If this cunning London detec- 
tive were to get into the IMaze premises 
again and see the prisoner there, all 
would be over. The probability was, 
that he was personally acquainted with 
the noted criminal Adam Andinnian : 
and it might be, that he had gained a 
suspicion that Adam Andinnian was 
alive. 

One thing Karl could not conceal 
from himself — and it brought to him a 
rush of remorse. If the detective had 
come down after Salter, he — he, Karl 
— must have been the means of bring- 
ing him there. 

But for that unpleasant conscious- 
ness he would have gone straight off 
to Smith the agent, and told him of 
the trouble that was threatening Adam, 

» and said, Wliat shall we do in it; how 
screen him? But he did not drire to 
make a move or stir a step that might 
bring Smith and the detective in con- 
tact. He could not quite understand 
why, if Smith were really Salter, the 
detective had not alread}^ pounced upon 
him : but he thought it quite likely 
that Smith might be keeping himself 
out of sight. In short, the thoughts 
and surmises that crossed and recrossed 
Karl’s brain, some probable enough, 
others quite improbable, were legion. 
Not for the world, if he could help it, 
would he aid — farther than he had per- 
haps unhappily aided — in denouncing 
Salter : and, knowing what he had 
done, he could not face the man. He 
had never intended to harm him. 

So there Karl was, overwhelmed 
with this new perplexity, and not able 
to stir in it. He saw not what he could 
do. To address the detective himself 
and say whom are jmu after, would be 
worse than folly : of all people he, 
Karl Andinnian, must keep aloof from 
him. It might be that there was only 
a suspicion about Adam’s being alive, 
that they were trjdng to find out 
whether it was so or not. For him, 
Karl, to interfere or show interest, 
would augment it. 

But this suspense was well nigh in- 
tolerable. Karl could not live under 
it. Something he must do. If only 


AT LAWYER ST. HENRY’S. 


189 


he could set the question at rest, 
as to which of the two criminals the 
detective was after, it would be a good 
deal gained. And he could only do 
that applying to Mr. Burtenshaw. 
It was not sure that he would, but 
there was a chance that he might. 

Lad}" Andinnian was in her little sit- 
ting-room upstairs, when she heard Sir 
Karl’s ‘footstep. He entered without 
knocking : which was very unusual. 
For they had grown ceremonious one 
with another since the estrang*ement, 
and knocked at doors and asked per- 
mission to enter, as strangers. Lucy 
was adding up her housekeeping bills. 

“I am going to London, Lucy. 
Some business has arisen that I am 
very anxious about, and I must go up 
at once.’^ 

With Plunkett and Plunkett?” 
she asked, a slight sarcasm in her tone, 
though Karl detected it not, as she re- 
membered the plea he had urged for 
the journey once before. 

“No, not with Plunkett and Plunk- 
ett. The business, though, is the same 
that has been troubling my peace all 
the summer. I think I shall be home 
to-night, Lucy : but if I cannot see the 
person I am going up to see, I may 
liave to wait in town until to-morrow. 
Should the last train not bring me 
down, you will know the reason why.” 

“ Of course your movements are your 
own, Sir Karl.” 

He sighed a little, and stood looking 
from the window. The first train he 
could catch would not go by for nearly 
an hour, so he had ample time to spare. 
Lucy spoke. 

“ I was going to ask you for some 
mone}". I have not enough, I think, 
for these bills.” 

“ Can you wait until I return, Lucy ? 
I have not much more in the house 
than I shall want. Or shall I give you 
a cheque ? Hewitt can go to the bank 
at Basham and cash it.” 

“ Oh I can wait quite well. There’s 
no hurry for a day or two.” 

“ You shall have it to-morrow in 
any case. If I stay away as long as 
that I shall be sure to return during 
banking hours, and will get out at. 
Basham and draw some money.” 


“ Thank. 3"ou.” 

“ Good bye, Lucy.” 

She held out her hand in answer to 
his, and wished him good bye in return. 
He kept it for a minute in his, stooped, 
and kissed her cheek. 

It brought a rush of color to her 
face, but she said nothing. Only drew 
away her hand, bent over her figures 
again, and began adding them up stead- 
ily. He passed round to his chamber, 
putting a few tilings in a hand bag in 
case he had to stay away the night. 

Then he went down to his room and 
penned a few lines to Adam, entreat- 
ing him to be unusually cautious. The 
note was enclosed in an outer envel- 
ope, addressed to Mrs. Grey. He rang 
the bell for Hewitt, and proceeded to 
lock his desk. 

“ I want you to go over to the Maze, 
Hewitt,” he said in a low tone — and 
had got so far when, happening to raise 
his eyes, he saw it was Giles and not 
Hewitt who had entered. Karl had 
his wits about him, and Hewitt came 
in at the moment. 

“ Hewitt, I want you to step over to 
the Maze and inquire whether the 
plumbers have been there yet. There’s 
something wrong with a drain. Ask 
the servants at the same time how their 
mistress is getting on.” 

Giles had stood gaping and listen- 
ing. Karl bade him look for his um- 
brella. 

“No message, Hewitt, and no an- 
swer,” breathed his master, as he 
handed him the note. “Put it in 
your pocket.” 

“ All right, sir,” nodded Hewitt, and 
he was away before Giles came back 
with the umbrella. 

Perhaps Mr. Burtenshaw was aston- 
ished, perhaps not, to see Sir Karl An- 
dinnian enter that same afternoon. He, 
the detective, was poring over his pa- 
pers, as usual, but he turned from them 
to salute his visitor. 

“ Will you take a seat, Sir Karl, for 
two minutes. After that, I am at your 
service.” 

“ You know me then, Mr. Burten- 
shaw !” exclaimed Karl. 

“ The man who happened to come 
into the room with Grimley, the last 


190 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


time yon were here, said you were Sir 
Karl Andiiinian,’^ replied the officer 
with )ut scruple. ‘‘ Take a seat, sir, 
pray.'*’ 

Mr. Burtenshaw placed four or five 
letters, already written, within their en- 
velopes, directed, and stamped them. 
Then he quitted the room, probably to 
send them to the post, came in again, 
and drew a chair in front of Karl. He 
is looking worse than ever,” was the 
mental summary of the detective — 
‘‘but what a nice ffice it is ! ” 

A3’, it was. The pale, beautiful fea- 
tures, their refined expression, the 
thoughtfulness in the sweet gray eyes, 
and the strange sadness that pervaded 
every lineament, made a picture that 
was singularl}^ attractive. Karl had 
one glove off ; and the diamond and 
opal ring he always wore in remem- 
brance of his father, flashed in the 
sunlight. For the buff blinds were not 
down to-day. He had wished to give 
the ring back to his brother, when he 
found he had no right to it himself, but 
Adam had insisted upon his keeping it 
and wearing it, lest “ the world might 
inquire where the ring was gone. 
Afiother little deceit, as it alwa3’s seem- 
ed to Karl. 

“I have called here, Mr. Burten- 
shaw, to ask you to answer me a ques- 
tion honestly. Have you — stay though,” 
he broke off. “ As \’ou know me, 1 pre- 
sume you know where I live?” 

“ Quite well. Sir Karl. I was there 
once in Sir Joseph Andinnian’s time.” 

“A3q of course you would know it. 
Now for my question. Have you sent 
a detective officer down to Foxwood af- 
ter Philip Salter ? ” 

“ I have not,” replied Mr. Burten- 
shaw, with, Karl thought, a stress 
upon the “ I.” 

“ But 3’ou know that one is there ? ” 

“ Wliy do you ask me this ?” cried 
Mr. Burtenshaw, making no immediate 
reply. 

“Because I have reason to believe, 
in fact to know, that a detective is at 
Foxwood, and I wish to ascertain what 
he is there for. I presume it can only 
be to search after Philip Salter.” 

“ And what if it were ?” asked Mr. 
Burtenshaw. 


“Nothing. Nothing that could in 
any way effect you. I want to ascer- 
tain it, yes or no, for my own private 
and individual satisfaction.” 

“ Well, 3’ou are right, Sir Karl. One 
of our men has gone down there with 
that object.” 

Karl paused. “ I suppose / have led 
to it,” he said. “ That is, that it has 
been done in consequence of the inqui- 
ries I made of you.” 

“Of those you made of Grimley, sir, 
not of me. I had nothing to do with 
sending Tatton down ” 

Karl caught at the name. “ Tatton, 
do 3’ou call him?” he interrupted. 
And Mr. Burtenshaw nodded. < 

“ He calls himself ‘Strange’ down ' 
there.” 

“ Oh, does he ? He knows what 
he is about. Sir Karl, rely upon it.” 

“ Who did send him down ?” 

“ Scotland Yard. It appears that 
Grimley, taking up the notion through 
you. that he had found a clue to the 
retreat of Salter, went to Scotland 
Yard, announced that Salter was in 
hiding somewhere in the neighborhood 
of Foxwood, and asked that a search 
should be set on foot for him.” 

Karl sat thinking. If the man Tat- 
ton went down after Philip Salter, 
what brought him within the grounds 
of the Maze, watching the house at 
night ? Whence that endeavor to get 
in by day, and his questions to Ann 
Hopley ? Was it Tatton who did, 
this ? — or were there two men. Strange 
and Tatton ? 

“What sort of a man is Tatton ?” 
he asked aloud. “ Slight and fair ?” 

“Slight and fair; about thirty 3 ’'ear 3 
of age. Sir Karl. Curly hair.” 

“ They must be the same,” mentally 
decided Karl. “ I presume,” he said, 
lifting his head, “ that Tatton must 
have started on this expedition soon af- 
ter I was here last?” 

“ The following da}^, I think.” 

“ Then he has been at Foxwood over 
long. ■ More than long enough to have 
found Salter if Salter’s there, Mr. Bur- 
tenshaw.*’ 

“That depends upon circumstances, 

Sir Karl,” replied the detective, with a 
vvaiy smile. “ I could tell you of a 


ANOTHER KETTLE-DRUM. 


191 


case where an escaped man was being 
looked after for twelve montlis before 
he was unearthed — and he was close at 
hand all the while. The^’ have as 
many ruses as a fox, these fugitives.’’ 

Nevertheless, as Tatton has not 
jet found Salter, I should consider it a 
tolerabl}^ sure proof that Salter is not 
at Foxvvood.” 

Mr. Burtenshaw threw a penetrat- 
ing gaze at his visitor. Will you 
undertake to give me your word, Sir 
Karl, that you do not know Philip 
Salter to be at Foxwood ? ” 

“ On my word and honor T do not 
know him to be there,” said Karl de- 
cisively. I should think he is not 
there.” 

He spoke but in accordance with his 
opinion. The conviction had been 
gaining upon him the last few minutes 
that he must have been in error in sus- 
pecting Smith to be the man. How 
else was it, if he was the man, that 
Tatton had not found him ? 

“ Salter is there,” said the detective 
— and Karl pricked up his ears to hear 
the decisive assertion. “ We have posi- 
tive information from Tatton that he 
is on his trail : — I am not sure but that 
he has seen him. For the first week 
or two of Tatton’s sojourn there, he 
could discover no trace whatever of the 
man oL^his hiding-place; but accident 
gave him a clue, and he has found 
both : found his hiding place and found 
him.” 

“ Then why does he not lay his hands 
upon him ? ” returned Karl, veering 
round again to the impression that it 
must be Smith. 

It is only a question of time. Sir 
Karl. No doubt he has good reasons 
for his delay. To knoiu where a man 
is hiding may be one thing ; to capture 
him quite another. Too much haste 
sometimes mars the game.” 

Tatton is going to remain at Fox- 
wood, then ? ” 

Until the capture is accomplished. 
Certainly.” 

Karl’s heart sunk within him at the 
answer. While Tatton was delaying 
his capture of Smith, he might be get- 
ting a clue to another escaped fugitive 


down there — Adam Andinnian. Nay, 
had he not already the clue ? Might 
not this very dela}^ be caused by some 
crafty scheme to take both criminals at 
once — to kill two birds with one stone? 
He asked one more question. 

“Mr. Burtenshaw, how was it that 
suspicion w^as directed at all to Fox- 
wood ? ” 

“ Grimley took up the notion after 
your second visit here. Sir Karl, that 
you had a suspicion of Salter yourself. 
He fancied you w’ere in the habit of 
seeing some one whom you thought, 
but did not feel quite sure, might bo 
Salter. And he judged that person, 
whether Salter or not, must be near 
your dwelling-place — Foxwood.” 

Ay, Karl saw how it w'as. He had 
done this. He, and no other, hail 
brought this additional danger upon 
his ill-fated brother, whom he would 
wdllingly have given his owm life to 
shield. 

There w^as nothing more to be asked 
of Burtenshaw: he had learnt all he 
came to hear. And Sir Karl with his 
load of care got back to Foxwood by 
the evening train. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

ANOTHER KETTLE-DRUIM. 

Commotion at Mrs. Jinks’s. Anoth- 
er afternoon kettle-drum on a grand 
scale. The two pastors, and more 
guests than could squeeze into the par- 
lor. All the Foxwood ladies and an 
omnibus load or two from Basham. 

Mr. Strange sat in his drawing-room 
on a three-legged* stool : the one that 
supported Mrs. Jinks’s tub on washing 
days. His chairs had been borrow’ed. 
He had good n at u redly given up every 
one; so Mrs. Jinks introduced the 
w^ooden stool. These crowded meet- 
ings below had amused him at first; 
but he was getting a little tired wdth 
the bustle and the noise. Every time 
the street door was knocked at, it shook 
his room ; the talking below could be 
heard nearly as plainly as though he 
were taking a part in it. Still it made a 


192 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


little diversion in ]Mr. Stranp^e’s solitary 
existence, if only to watch the arrival of 
the articles needful for the feast, and 
to smell the aroma of the coffee, made 
in the kitchen in a huge kettle. Tiie 
supplies did not concern ]Mr. Catta- 
comb : his gentle fli^ck took that on 
themselves, cost ami all. There was 
no lack of good tilings, but rather a 
super-abundance : since the Eeverend 
Mr. Puff’ had come to augment the 
clerical force, the contributions had 
been too profuse. So that every one 
was in the seventh heaven of enjoy- 
ment and good humor, except Mrs. 
Jinks. 

Perched on the hard stool, Mr. 
Strange, for lack of other employment, 
liad noted the dainties as the}^ came in. 
The wisest of us must unbend some- 
times, even a great police detective. A 
basket of muffins full to the brim; 
eleven sorts of jam — since it was dis- 
covered that the Reverend Guy loved 
preserves to satiety, the assortments 
had never failed; thirteen kinds of 
biscuits, trays of cake, glass pots of 
marmalade and honey, ripe rich fruits 
of all tempting colors, chocolate creams, 
candied oranges. 

Mr. Strange grew tired of looking; 
his head ached with the noise, his eyes 
with the splendor of the ladies’ dresses. 
For the company was arriving now, 
thick and three-fold. 

There had arisen a slight, a very 
slight, modicum of displeasure at Mr. 
Cattacomb. That zealous divine had 
been met four or five times walking 
with Dr. Moore’s third daughter, Jemi- 
ma ; at the last lecture he had dis- 
tinctly been seen inanoeuvering to get 
the young lady next to him. It gave 
offence. While lie belonged to them 
all, all adored Jiim ; but let him #nce 
single out one of them for favor more 
than the rest, and woe betide his popu- 
larit3\ “ And that little idiot of a Je- 
mima IMoore, too, who had not two 
ideas in her vain head!” as Jane St. 
Henrj" confidentially remarked. How- 
ever, the Reverend Guy. upon receiv- 
ing a hint from Miss Blake that he 
was giving umbrage, vowed and pro- 
tested that it was all accident and 
imagination — that he hardly' knew 


Miss Jemima from her sisters. So 
peace was restored, and the kettle-drum 
grew out of it. 

‘‘ I must have my chop all the same, 
Mrs. Jinks,” said ]\lr. Strange to 
the widow ; who had come up stairs to 
ask the loan of his sugar tongs, and 
looked veiT red and excited over it. 

“ In course, sir, 3mu shall have it. 
It might be ten minutes later, sir, than 
ord’nary, but I do liope you’ll exe.use 
it, sir, if it is. A^ou see how I’m drove 
with ’em.” 

I see that there seems to be a large 

O 

company arriving.” 

‘‘Company!” returned IMrs. Jinks, 
the word causing her temper to ex- 
plode ; “ I don’t know how they’ll ever 
get inside the room. I shall have to 
borrow a form from the school next 
door but one, and put in the passage 
for some of ’em ; and when that and 
the chairs is tilled the rest must stand. 
Never as long as I live will I take in a 
unmarried parson-gent again, if he’s 
one of this here new sort that gets the 
ladies about him all da3^ in church and 
gives drums out of it. Hark at the 
laughing ! Them two parsons be iu 
their gloiy.” 

“The ladies must be fond of drums, 
by their getting them up so fre(pient- 
Iv',” remarked Mr. Strange. 

“ Drat the Inizzies ! — they’d be fond 
of fifes too if it brought ’em round 
Cattakiuj” was the widow’s inmom|.)li- 
melitary rejoinder. “Better for ’em if 
the3'’d let the man alone to drink his 
tea in quiet and write his sermons — 
which I don’t believe he ever does get 
writ, seeing he never has a minute to 
himself. Hark at that blessed door!” 
she continued; and indeed the knock- 
ing was keeping up a perpetual chorus. 
“ If they’d onlv’ turn the handle the3'’ 
could come in of theirselves. 1 said so 
to the Miss St. JleniTs one cleaning 
day that I had been called to it six 
times while scrubbing down the kitchen 
stairs, and the voung ladies answered 
me that they would not come in to i\lr. 
Cattakin’s without knocking, for the 
world.” 

“ i suppose not,” said Mr. Strange, 
slightly laughing. 

“ Hang that knocker again. There 


ANOTHER KETTLE-DRUM. 


193 


it goes! And me with all the drum 
on my shoulders. You should see the 
muffins weVe got to toast and butter 
downstairs, sir ; your conscience hid 
fail you. Betsy Chaffen has come in to 
help me, and she and the girl’s at it 
like steam. I’m afeered that there 
stool’s terrible hard for you, Mr. 
Strange, sir!” spoke the widow as a 
parting condolence. 

“ It’s not as soft as velvet,” was the 
reply. But I’m glad to oblige : and I 
am going out presently. Get my chop 
and tea up when you can.” 

Mrs. Jinks disappeared; the hum 
continued. Whether the two parsons, 
as Mrs. Jinks surmised, felt ^Mn their 
glory,” cannot be told: the ladies were 
certainly in theirs. These kettle-drums 
at Mr. Cattacomb’s were charmingly 
attractive. 

When Mr. Strange did not return 
home for his chop at mid-day, he took 
it with his tea. His tray was j^et be- 
fore him when the kettle-drum trouped 
out to attend vespers. At least, the 
company who had formed the drum. 
The two reverend gentlemen hastened 
on together a little in advance ; Miss 
Blake led the van behind ; and curious 
Boxwood ran to its windows to see. 

Mr. Strange, who had nothing par- 
ticular on his hands or mind tliat eve- 
ning, looked after them. Example is 
infectious. He felt an inclination to 
follow in their wake — for it had not 
been his good fortune 3^et to make one 
of the worshipers at St. Jerome’s; he 
had never indulged himself with as 
much as a peep inside the place. Ac- 
cordingly, Mr. Strange started, after 
some short delay, and gained the 
edifice. 

The first object his eyes rested upon 
struck him as being as ludicrous as an 
imp at the pla3^ It was Tom Peppin 
a conical hat tipped with red, and a red 
cross extending down his white gar- 
mented back. Tom Pepp stood near 
the bell, ready to tinkle it at parts of 
the service. It may as well be stated 
— lest earnest disciples of new move- 
ments should take offence — that the 
form and make of the services at St. 
Jerome’s were entirely Mr. Cattacomb’s 
12 


own ; invented by himself exclusively, 
and not copied from any other stand- 
ard, orthodox or unorthodox : (and that 
the description is taken from facts.) 
Mr. Strange, standing at the back near 
Tom Pej:»p, enjoyed full view of all : the 
ladies prostrate on the door, the Rever- 
end Gu}^ facing them with the whites 
of his eyes turned up ; Damon Puff on 
his knees, presenting his back to the 
room and giving ever^^ now and then a 
surreptitious stroke to his moustache. 
The detective had never seen so com- 
plete a farce in his life, as connected 
with religion. He thought the two 
reverend gentlemen might be shut up 
for a short term as mutinous lunatics 
by way of receiving a little wholesome 
correction : he knew if he had a daugh- 
ter he would shut Aer up as one, rather 
than she should make a spectacle of 
herself as these other girls were doing. 

The services over, Tom Pepp set on 
at the bell to ring tliem out with all 
his might — for that was the custom. 
Most of them filed out, as did Mr. Da- 
mon Puff’; and the}’’ went on their way. 
A few of them stopped in for confes- 
sion to Mr. Cattacomb. 

It was growing dusk then. A train 
was just in, and had deposited some 
passengers at the station. One of them 
came along, walking quickly, as if in 
haste to get home. Happening to turn 
his head towards St. Jerome’s as he 
passed it, he saw there, rather to his 
surprise, standing just outside the door, 
Mr. Moore’s strong-minded sister. She 
peered at him in the twilight; she was 
no longer so quick of sight as she had 
been ; and recognized Sir Karl Andin- 
nian. 

What, is it you. Miss Diana !” he 
cried, stopping to hold out his hand. 
“ Have you gone over to St. Je- 
rome’s ? ” 

Pd rather go over to Rome, Sir 
Karl,” was the candid answer. I 
may lapse to St. Jerome’s when I get 
childish perhaps, if it lasts so long. 
There’s no answering for any of us 
when the mind fails.” 

Sir Karl laughed slightly. He saw 
before him the receding crowd turning 
down towards Foxwood village, and 


19 i 


WITHIN THE r^IAZE. 




knew tliat vespers must ke just over. 
The ring'in'^ of Tom Pepp’s hell would 
liave told him that. It was claiming 

o o 

away just above Miss Diana’s head. 

“You have been to vespers, then,” 
remarked Sir Karl again, almost at a 
loss what to sa}^ and unable to get 
away until ]Miss Diana chose to release 
his hand. 

Yes, I have been to what they call 
vespers,” she rejoined tartl}’', “ more ! 
shame for a woman of my sober 3’ears 
to sa}’ it, as connected with this place. 
Look at them trooping on there, that 
Puff in the midst, who is softer than 
any apple-puff ever made ^^et ! ” con- 
tinued iMiss Diana, pointing her hand 
in the direction of the vanishing con- 
gregation. “ They have gone ; but 
there are five staying in for confession. 
Hark ! Hark, Sir Karl ! the folly is 
going to begin.” 

A sweet, silvery-toned bell rang 
gentl}^ within the room, and the clang.- 
ing bell of Mr. Pepp stopped at the 
signal. The Reverend Gu}' had gone 
into the confessional box, and all other 
sounds must cease. 

“ I should think they can hardly see 
to confess at this hour,” said Sir Karl 
jestingly. 

“ They light a tallow candle, I be- 
lieve, and stick it in the vestry,” said 
Miss Diana. “ Five of them are staj^- 
ing to-night, as I told you: I always 
count. They go in one at a time and 
the others wait their turn outside the 
vestrj'-. Do you think I am going to 
let my nieces sta}^ here alone to plaj" at 
that fun. Sir Karl ? No : and so I 
dr’ag myself here every confessional 
night. One of them, Jemima, is al- 
ways staying. She’s a little fool ! ” 

“ It does not seem right,” mused Sir 
Karl. 

“Right !” ejaculated Miss Diana in 
an angry tone, as if she could have 
boxed his ears for the mild word. “ It 
is wrong, Sir Karl, and doubly wrong, 

I do not care to draw the curb rein too 
tightly ; they are not my own children, 
and might rebel ; but as sure as they 
are living, if this folly of stopping be- 
hind to confess is to go on, I shall tell 
the doctor of it. I think, Sir Karl — 


ami you must excuse me for saying so 
to your face — that 3^011 might have done 
something before now to put down the 
pantomime of this St. Jerome’s.” 

“ Onl}’ this very morning I was with 
St. Henry, asking him what I coul I 
do,” was the reply. “ His opinion is, 
that it will cease of itself when the cold 
weather comes on.” 

“ Will it ! ” was the sarcasticall3^ 
! emphatic retort. “ Not if Cattacomb 
ami the girls can help it. It’s neither 
cold* nor heat that will stop them I ” 

“ Well, I am not sure about the law, 
Miss Diana. I don’t know that St. 
Henr}'’ is, either.” 

“ Look here, Sir Karl. If the law 
is not strong enough to put down these 
places, there’s another remedy. Let 
all the clergy who officiate at them be 
upwards of fifty y^ears old and married. 
It would soon be proved whether, or 
not, the girls go for the benefit of their 
souls.” 

Sir Karl burst into a laugh. 

“ It is these off-shoots of semi-re- 
ligious places, started up here ami 
there by men of vanity, some of whom 
are not licensed clerg3*men, that brings 
the shame and the scandal upon the 
true church,” concluded Miss Diana, as 
she wished Sir Karl good evening and 
turned into the church again to watch 
over her niece Jemima. 

Sir Karl strode onwards. He had 
just come home from his interview with 
Mr. Burtenshaw. Miss Diana IMooro 
and her sentiments had served to di- 
vert his mind for a moment from his 
own troubles, but they were soon all 
too present again. The hum of the 
voices, and sound of the footsteps came 
back to him from the crowd, pursuing 
its busy wa\^ to the village : he was 
glad to keep on his own solitary course 
and lose its echo. 

Some one else, who had come out of 
St. Jerome’s but who could not be said 
properly to pertain to the crowd, had 
kept on the solitary road — and that 
was Mr. Strange. He knew the others 
would take the direct way to the vil- 
lage and Mrs. Jinks’s, and perhaps that 
was the reason he did not. But there 
was no accounting for what Mr. Strange 


ANOTHER KETTLE-DRUM. 


195 


did : and one thin^ was certain — lie 
liad been in the habit lately of loitering 
»n that solitary road a good deal after 
dusk had fallen, smoking his cigar there 
between whiles. 

Sir Karl went on. He had nearly 
reached the Maze, though he was on 
the opposite side, when at a bend of 
the road there suddenly turned upon 
him a man with a cigar in his mouth, 
the red end of it glowing like a fire 
coal. The smoker would have turned 
his head away again, biit Sir Karl 
stopped. He had recognized him : and 
his mind had been made up on the 
way from London, to speak to this 
man. 

I beg your pardon. Mr. Tatton, I 
think.” 

Mr. Tatton might possibly have 
been slightly .taken to at hearing his 
own name : but there was no symptom 
of it in his voice or. manner. 

The same, sir,” he readily answer- 
ed, taking the cigar from his mouth. 

I wish to say a few words to you. 
As well perhaps say them now as 
later.” 

“ Better, sir. \ No time like the pres- 
ent: it’s all we can make sure of.” 

“ Perhaps you know me, Mr. Tat- 
ton ? ” 

Sir Karl Andinnian — unless I am 
mistaken,” replied the detective, throw- 
ing away his cigar. 

Sir Karl nodded, but made no as- 
sent in words. He would have given 
a portion of his remaining life to 
discern whether this man of law, whom 
he so dreaded, knew, or suspected, that 
he had not a right to the title. 

I have just come from London,” 
pursued Karl. I saw Mr. Burten- 
shaw there to-day. Finding that you 
were down here, I wished to ascertain 
whether or not you had come here in 
search of one Philip Salter. And I 
hear that it is so.” 

The officer made no remark to this. 
It might be, that he was uncertain how 
far he might trust Sir Karl. The lat- 
ter observed the reticence : guessed at 
the doubt. 

“We may speak together in perfect 
confidence, Mr. Tatton. But for me 


you would not have been sent here at 
all. It was in consequence of a com- 
munication I made myself, that the 
suspicion as to Salter reached Scotland 
Yard. 

“ I know all about that. Sir Karl,” 
was the reply. To tell you the truth 
I should have made my presence here 
at Foxwood known to you at once, and 
asked you to aid me in my search ; but 
I was warned at Scotland Yard that 
you might obstruct my work instead of 
aiding it, for that you wished to screen 
Salter.” 

“ Scotland Yard warned you of 
that!” exclaimed Sir Karl. 

“ Yes. They had it from Grim- 
leyd’ 

“ The case is this,” said Sir Karl, 
wishing with his whole heart he could 
undo what he had done. “ I had a 
reason for making some inquiries res- 
pecting Philip Salter, and I went to 
my solicitors, Plunkett and Plunkett, 
They could not give me any informa- 
tion, but referred me to Mr. Burten- 
shaw. Burtenshaw introduced Grim- 
ley to me, and I saw them both twice. 
But I most certainly never intended to 
imply that Salter was in this neigh- 
borhood, or to afford just grounds for 
sending down to institute a search af- 
ter him.” 

“But I presume that you do know 
he is here. Sir Karl.” 

“ Indeed I do not.” '' 

The officer was silent. He thought 
Sir Karl was intending to deceive him, 

“ I can tell you that he is here, Sir 
Karl — to the best of my belief I 
could put out ni}^ hand at this, minute 
and almost touch the dwelling that con- 
tains him.” 

They were nearly opposite the Maze 
gates, close upon the gate of Clematis 
Cottage. Karl wondered, with an 
anxiety amounting to agony, which of 
the two dwellings was meant. It 
would be almost as bad for this man to 
take Salter as to take Adam Andinni- 
an, since the capture of the former 
might lead direct to that of the latter. 

“ You say to the best of your belief, 
Mr. Tatton. You are not sure, 
then ? ” 


196 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


I am as sure as I can be, Sir Karl, 
short of actual sight.’’ 

‘‘ Good night, Sir Karl.” 

The interruption came from ]\Ir. 
Smith, who was leaning over his gate, 
smoking a pipe. Karl returned the 
salutation and passed on. 

“ He seems to have a jolly kind of 
easy life of it, that agent of yours. Sir 
Karl ? ” remarked the officer. 

“ Do you know him ? ” 

Only by sight. 1 have seen Mr. 
Smith about on the land ; and I took 
the liberty this afternoon, meeting him 
by chance near the Brook field, of ask- 
ing him what the time was. The 
spring of my watch broke last night as 
I was winding it.” 

Karl’s heart was beating. Had he 
been mistaken in supposing Philip 
Smith to be Philip Salter? Had 
he been nursing a foolish chimera, and 
running his head — or, rather, his poor 
brother’s head — into a noose for noth- 
ing ? God help him, then ! 

You seem to know my agent well 
by sight,” he breathed, in a tone kept 
low, lest its agitation should be heard. 

Quito well,” assented the officer. 

Is he — does he bear any resem- 
blance to Salter ? ” 

Not the least.” 

Karl paused. You are sure of 
that ? ” 

Tatton took a look at Sir Karl in 
the evening dusk, as if not able to un- 
derstand him. “ He is about the 
height of Salter, and in complexion is 
somewhat similar, if you can call that 
a resemblance. There is no other.” 

Karl spoke not for a few moments : 
the way before him was darkening. 
‘‘ You knew Salter well, I conclude ?” 
he said presently. 

•^As well as I know my own broth- 
er.” 

Another pause ; and then Karl laid 
his hand upon the officer’s arm, be- 
speaking his best attention. 

“ I am sorry for all this,” he said ; 

I am vexed to have been the cause 
of so much trouble. Your mission 
here may terminate as soon as you 
will, Mr. Tatton, for it is Smith that 
I was suspecting of being Salter ! ” 


^^No!” cried Tatton in surprised 
disbelief. 

On my solemn word, I assert it. 
I suspected my agent, Smith, to be 
Salter.” 

‘‘Why, Sir Karl, I can hardly un- 
derstand that. You surelj" could not 
suppose it to be within the bounds of 
probability that Philip Salter, the fu- 
gitive criminal, would go about in the 
light of day in England as your agent 
goes — no matter how secluded the spot 
might be ! And five hundred pounds 
on his head ! ” 

^How a word of ridicule, of reason 
even, will serve to change our cherish- 
ed notions4^ Put as the cool and ex- 
perienced police officer put it, Karl 
seemed to see how poor and founda- 
tionless his judgment had been. 

“ The cause of the affair was this,” 
he said, hoping by a candid explana- 
tion to disarm the suspicions he had 
raised. “A circumstance — I own it 
was but a slight one — put it into my 
head that Philip Smith, of whom I 
had known nothing until he came here 
a few months ago as my agent, might 
be the escaped prisoner Philip Salter. 
The idea grew with me, and I became 
anxious — naturally you will say — to 
ascertain whether there were any real 
grounds for it. With this view I 
went up to see if Plunkett’s people 
could give me any information about 
Salter or describe his person ; and they 
referred me to Mr. Burtenshaw.” 

“ Well sir ? ” interposed Tatton, who 
was listening attentively. 

“ I am bound to say that I obtained 
no corroboration of my suspicions, ex- 
cept in regard to the resemblance,” 
continued Sir Karl. “ Burtensliaw 
did not know him ; but he summoned 
the man wlio had let him escape — 
Grimley. As Grimley described Sal- 
ter, it seemed to me that it was the 
precise description of Smith. I came 
back here, strengthened in my opinion : 
but not fully confirmed. It was not a 
satisfactory state of things, and the 
matter continued to worry me. I 
longed to set it at rest, one way or the 
other; and I went up again to town 
and saw Grimley and Mr. Burtenshaw. 


ANOTHER KETTLE-DRUM. 


197 


When I came back once more, I felt 
nearly as sure as a man can feel that it 
was Salter.” 

“And yet you did not denounce 
him, Sir Karl. You would never have 
done it, I suppose ? ” 

“ I should not,” admitted Sir Karl, 
intention was to tax him with it 
privately, and — and send him about 
his business. Very wrong and illegal 
of me, no doubt; but I have suffered 
too severely in my own family by the 
criminal law of the land, to give up 
another man gratuitously to it.” 

At this reference to Sir Adam An- 
dinnian, Mr. Tatton remained silent 
from motives of delicacy. He could 
understand the objection ; especially 
from a refined, sensitive, and merciful- 
natured man, as Sir Karl appeared to 
be. 

^^Well, sir, I can only say for my- 
self that I wish your agent had been 
Salter: my hands would have been 
upon him before to-night. But is it 
true that you have no other suspi- 
cion ? ” 

“ What suspicion ? ” 

“That the real Salter is in biding at 
Fox wood.” 

KarPs heart beat a shade faster. 

So far from having an}^ suspicion of 
that kind, I am perfectly certain, now 
that you have proved to me Smith is 
not Salter, that he is not at Foxwood. 

I know every soul in the place and 
around it.” 

“ Were you acquainted with the real 
Salter, Sir Karl ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ You take no interest in lijm, I pre- 
sume ? ” 

• “ None whatever.” 

During the conversation they had 
been slowly pacing onwards, had pass- 
ed the Court gates, and w’ere now fair- 
ly on the road to Foxwood. It seemed 
as if Sir Karl had a mind to escort 
Mr. Tatton to his home. 

“ By the way,” he said, “ why did 
you call yourself Strange down 
here ? ” 

“I never did,” answered Tatton, 
laughing slightly. “ The widow Jinks 
gave me that name ; I never gave it 


myself. I said to her I was a strang- 
er, and she must have misunderstood 
me; for I found afterwards that she 
was calling me Mr. Strange. It was 
rather convenient than otherwise, and 
I did not set it to rights.” 

Karl strolled on in silence, wonder- 
ing how all this would end and wheth- 
er this dangerous man — dangerous to 
him and his interests — was satisfied, 
and would betake himself to town 
again. A question interrupted him. 

“ Do you know much of a place here 
called the Maze, Sir Karl?^’ 

“ The Maze is my property. 
“ Why ? ” 

“ Yes, I am aware of that. What 
I meant to ask was, whether you knew 
much of its inmates.” 

“ It is let to a lady named Grey. 
Her husband is abroad.” 

“That’s what she tells you, is it! 
Her husband is there. Sir Karl — if he 
be her husband. That is where we 
must look for Philip Salter.” 

Something born of emotion, of sud- 
den fear, seemed to flash across KarPs 
eyes and momentarily blind him. A 
wild prayer went up for guidance, for 
help to confront this evil. 

“ Why do you say this ? ” he asked, 
his voice controlled to a calm indiffer- 
ence. 

“I have information that some gen- 
tleman is living at the Maze in con- 
cealment, and I make no doubt it is 
Salter. The description of his person, 
so far as I have it, answers to him. 
Until to-night. Sir Karl, I have be- 
lieved that it was to the Maze your 
own suspicious of Salter were directed.” 

“ Certainly not — on my word of hon- 
or as a gentleman,” was the reply. 
“ I feel sure you are mistaken ; I know 
you are. Mrs. Grey lives alone at the 
Maze, save for her servants : two old 
people who are man and wife.” 

“ I am aware that is the general be- 
lief. It’s not true, though, for all that, 
Sir Karl.” 

“ Indeed it is true,” returned Karl, 
calmly as before, for he did not dare to 
show too much zeal in the cause. “ I 
have been over there pretty often on 
one matter or another — the house is an 


198 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


t 


old one, and no end of repairs seem to 
be wanted to it — and I am absolutely; 
sure that no inmate whatever is there, 
save the three I have mentioned. Ido 
not count tlie infant.^^ 

Ay ; til ere ; the infant. What 
does til at prove ? 

‘•Nothing — as to your argument. 
Mrs. Grey only came to the place some 
five or six months ago. Not yet six, I 
think.’^ 

Kely upon it, Sir Karl, the lady 
has contrived to blind you, in spite of 
your visits, just as she has blinded the 
outside world. Some one is there, con- 
cealed ; and I shall be very^ much sur- 
prised if it does not turn out to be Sab 
ter. As to the two old servants, they 
are bound to her interests ; are of 
course as much in the plot as she is.” 

“1 know you are mistaken. I could 
stake ray^ life that no one else is there. 
Surel_y you are not going to act on this 
idea ! ” 

“ I don’t know,” replied Mr. Tatton 
crafcily^ “Time enough. Perhaps I 
may get some other information before 
long. Should I require a search war- 
rant to examine the house I shall ap- 
ply to ymu, Sir Karl. You are in the 
commission of peace, I believe.” 

Sir Karl nodded. “ If you. must 
liave one, I shall be happy to afford it,” 
lie said, remembering that if it came 
to this pass, his being able to avert the 
Maze privately^ beforehand, would be a 
boon. And, with that, they separated: 
the detective continuing to pace on- 
wards towards Parjfcise llovv. Sir Karl 
turning back to his own house. 

But the events of the evening, as 
concerning the Maze interests, were 
not altogether at an end. Miss Blake 
was the last to come out of the confes- 
sional, for the rest had taken their turn 
before her. It was tolerably late then ; 
quite dark ; and both Aunt Diana and 
Tiun I\q)p were boiling over with in- 
dignation at being kept so long. They^ 
all turned out of St. Jerome’s together, 
including Mr. Cattacomb ; and all, save 
Miss Blake and the boy, went in the 
direction of the village. Tom Pepp, 
having locked up and doffed his bell- 
ringing garments, proceeded the other 
way, accompanied by Miss Blake. 


She was going to visit a sick woman 
who lived next door to Tom’s mother. 
Miss Blake had her good points, though 
she was harsh of judgment. This poor 
woman. Dame Bell, was dying of con- 
sumption ; the end was drawing near, 
and Miss Blake often went to sit by 
and read to her. The boy^ had told her 
at vespers that night that it was 
thought she could hardly live till 
morning : hence the late visit. 

It was striking ten when Miss Blake 
quitted the cottage : she heard the 
quarters and the strokes told out from 
the distant church at Foxwood. The 
night was a still one. Tom Pepp, 
waiting outside, gallantly offered to 
attend her home. She accepted the 
escort readily, not caring to go alone 
so late as that. 

“But I fear it will be keeping your 
mother up, Tom,” she hesitated. “ I 
know you go to bed early.” 

“That’s nothing, um,” said Tom. 
“ Mother have got her clothes from the 
wash to fold to-night. She telled me 
I was not to let you go back alone. It 
have been a rare good day for drying.” 

So they set off together, talking all 
the way, for Tom was an intelligent 
companion and often had items of news 
to regale the public with. When thev 
came within view of the Maze gates and 
Clematis Cottage, the loneliness of the 
way was over, and Miss Blake sent the 
lad back again, giving him a three- 
penny-bit. 

She was on the Maze side of the 
wayq not having crossed since leaving 
Mrs. Bell's cottage. And she had all 
but reached the gates, when the sound 
of advancing footsteps grew upon her 
ear. Drawing back amidst the trees 
— not to watch for Sir Karl Andinnian 
as she had watched at other times, for 
she believed him to be in London, but 
simply^ to shield herself from observa- 
tion as it was so late — Miss Jfiake 
waited until the footsteps should have 
gone by^ 

The footsteps halted at the gate: 
and she, peeping through the leaves, 
saw it was Sir Karl. He took the key’’ 
from liis pocket as usual, openej^ the 
gate, locked it after him, and ])lunged 
into the maze. Miss Blake heaved a 


ONLY A NIGHT OWL. 


199 


sigh at man’s inventions, and kept still 
uniil there was no fear that her rust- 
'ling away would be heard. Then^she 
moved. 

She had never been in all her life 
so near screaming. Taking one step 
forward to depart, she found herself 
right in the arms of somebody" who had 
coat sleeves on ; another watcher like 
herself. 

‘‘I beg your pardon, ma’am.” 

“ Good gracious, Mr. Strange, how 
you frightened me! Whatever are you 
doing here ? ” 

Naj^j I ma}’ ask what you were 
doing,” was the smiling retort. On 
your way home, I take it. As for me, 
I was smoking my cigar, and it has 
gone out. Tliat was our friend, Sir 
Karl Andinnian, I fancy, who let him- 
self in there.” 

^‘Oh 3^es it was Sir Karl,” was the 
contemptuous answer given, as thej^ 
walked on together. “It is not the 
first night b}’ a good many he has been 
seen stealing in at those gates.” 

“Paying his court to Mrs. Gre^’l” 
returned IMr. Strange, reallj^ speaking 
without any sinister motive. 

Miss Blake, in the honest indignation 
of her heart, and just come from the 
upright exhortations of the Keverend 
Gu 3", allowed her sentiments their pla^’, 
Mr. Strange’s remark, made in all in- 
nocence, had seemed to show her that 
be too knew of the scandal. 

“ It is shameful ! ” she said. “Doubl^^ 
shameful in Sir Karl, a married man.” 

Mr. Strange pricked up his ears. 
He caught her meaning instantly. 

“ Nonsense 1 ” said he. 

“I wish it was nonsense,” said Miss 
Blake. “ When the woman, Chaffen, 
was telling the tale in your rooms that 
day, of the gentleman she saw, and 
whom she could never see afterwards, 
I could hardly contain myself, dear sir, 
knowing it was Sir Karl.” 

“ And — and — do you. mean — do jmu 
think that there’s no Mr. Grey there — 
no gentleman inmate, I would sa}"?” 
cried the detective, surprised for once. 

“Mr. Grey!” she repeated, scoffing- 
“The onl}" ‘Mr. Grey’ that ex- 
ists is Sir Karl Andinnian ; I have 


known it a long while. One or two 
others here know it also. It is a sad 
scandal.” 

She wished him good night with the 
last words, crossed the road, and let 
herself into the grounds of the Court 
b^^ one of the small gates. Leaving 
Mr. Strange looking after her like a 
man in a dream, as he tried to solve 
the problems set a working in his brain. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

ONLY A NIGHT OWL. 

The wide window of the upper 
sitting-room at the Maze was thrown 
open to the night air. Looking forth 
from it, stood Sir Adam Andinnian 
and his wife. He was in his usual 
evening dress, that he so obstinately" 
continued to persist in assuming in the 
teeth of remonstrance : she wore a 
loose white sitting-up robe and a blue 
cashmere shawl over it. She look- 
ed delicately fragile, very weak and 
ill still ; and this was the first day that 
she had left her chamber for any 
length of time. There was no light 
in the sombre room : before light was 
allowed to come in, the window would 
be closed and the shutters shut for the 
night. 

Not a word was being spoken be- 
tween them. She had not long come 
into the room. A great terror lay on 
both their hearts. At least, it did on 
hers : and Sir Adam had grown to feel 
anything but easy. The suspicions 
that appeared to be attaching them- 
selves to the Maze outside the walls, 
were producing their effects on the 
comfort of the inmates within : and 
perhaps these suspicions were feared 
all the more because they^ did not as 
yet take any" tangible or distinct form. 
That a detective officer was in the 
neighborhood looking about, Adam had 
heard from his brother; and that it ^ 
was the same man who had been seen 
by" Ann Hopley watching the house in 
the moonliglit and who had boldly 
presented himself at the gate the next 
day demanding permission to enter, Sir 


^00 


I 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


Adam had no doubt whatever of. 
Karl, too, was taking to write him 
notes of caution. 

Brave though he was, he could not 
feel safe. There was not a moment of 
the day or night but he might see the 
officers of justice coming in to look for 
him. His own opinion was that he 
should be able to evade them if the}’ 
did come ; to baffle their scrutiny ; 
but he could not feel quite as easy as 
though he were on a bed of summer 
rose-leaves. The convsequence of this 
apprehension was, that the ears of 
himself and his wife were ever on tlie 
alert, their eyes rarely went off the 
watch, their conscious hearts never lost 
the quick beat of fear. It was enough 
to wear them both out. 

Oh, can the reader really realize, I 
wonder, what the situation was ? Can 
he only imagine one single hour of its 
terrors, or picture its never-ceasing, 
prolonged doubt and agony? I think 
not. It cannot be adequately told of. 
A novelist’s pen may be faithful 
enough in portraying some things, but 
it could scarcely portray this. Behind 
and before, there was the awful vista 
of that dreadful Portland Island: look 
which way they would, nothing else 
presented itself. 

A gentle breeze suddenly arose, 
stirring the trees outside. Never an 
unexpected sound, however faint, was 
heard, but it stirred their beating 
hearts j stirred them to a fast, flutter- 
ing ugly throbbing. It was but the 
wind; they knew it was only that: 
and yet tlie emotion dnl not subside 
quickly, Bose had another great anxie- 
ty, separate and apart : perhaps he had 
it also in a degree, but he did not admit 
it. It was on the score of her hus- 
band’s health. There could be no 
doubt that something or other was j 
amiss, for he had occasional attacks of 
pain that seemed to arise without any 
explainable cause. Ann Hopley, who 
considered herself wise in ailments, 
declared that he ought to see a doctor. 
She had said it to her master ineffec- 
tually ; she now began to say it to her 
in stress. Sir Adam laughed in her 
face when his wife was present, and 


ridiculed her advice with mocking 
words of pleasantry : but Ann Hopley 
gave nothing but grave looks in return. 

The fact was, she knew more than 
Bose did : more than Sir Adam in- 
tended or would allow his wife to know. 
One day, going to a part of the 
grounds where she knew she should 
find her master, she found him on the 
ground amidst the trees, in a fainting- 
fit, his face of a bluish white. Some 
acute pain, or spasm, sharper than he 
had ever felt before, had caused him to 
lose consciousness, he said, when he 
recovered; and he threatened the 
woman with unheard of pains and 
penalties if she breathed a word to her 
mistress. Ann Hopley held her tongue 
accordingly: but when Bose got about 
again she could see that Adam was not 
well. And the very impossibility of 
calling in a medical man to him, with- 
out arousing curiosity and comments 
that might lead to danger, was tor- 
menting her with its own anxiety. 

The baby sleeps well to-night, 
Bose.” 

He has slept better and has been 
altogether easier since he was bap- 
tised,” was her answer. ‘Ht is just as 
though he knew he was made into a 
little Christian, and so feels at rest.” 

“ Goose ! ” smiled Sir Adam. “Don't 
you think you are sitting up too late, 
you young mamma? ” 

“ I am not tired, Adam. I had a 
good.sleep this afternoon.” 

“It is later than you are perhaps 
aware of, Bose. Hard upon ten.” 

“ Would you like to have lights ? ” 
she asked. 

“ No. I’d rather be without them.” 

She would rather be without them. 
In this extended cause for fear that 
was growing up, it seemed safer to he 
at the open widow looking out, than to 
be shut up in the closed room where the 
approaches of danger could neither be 
seen or heard. Perhaps the same kind 
of feeling was swaying Sir Adam. 

“ You are sure you are well wrapped 
up, Bose ? ” 

“ Certain. And I could not take 
cold in this weather. It is like sum- 
mer still.” 


OMLY A NIGHT OWL. 


201 


All around was still as death. The 
stars shone in the sky : the gentle 
breeze, tliat had rutiled the trees just 
before, seemed to have died away. 
Breaking just then upon the stillness, 
came the sound of the church clock at 
Foxwood, telling its four quarters and 
the ten strokes of the hour after it. 
The same quarters, the same strokes 
that Miss Blake also heard, emerging 
from Dame Bell’s cottage. The hus- 
band and wife, poor banned people, 
stood on again side by side, the}^ hard- 
13^ knew how long, hushing the trouble 
that was making a havoc of their lives, 
and from which they knew there could 
be no certain or complete escape so long 
as time for him should last. Presentlj^ 
he spoke again. 

E/Ose, if jmu stay here longer I 
shall close the window. This night 
air, calm and warm though it is, can- 
not be good for 3^011 ” 

She laid her warning hand upon his 
arm. Tlie ears of both were quick, but 
he was speaking at the moment and so 
she caught the sound first. A pause 
of intense silence, their hearts beating 
almost to be heard ; and then the ad- 
vancing footsteps, whether stealthy 
ones or not, might be distinctly traced, 
coming through the maze. 

“ Go, Adam,” she wliispered. 

But, before Sir Adam could quit the 
room, the whistle of a popular melody 
broke out upon the air, and they knew 
the intruder was Karl. It was bis 
usual advance signal. Ann Hople3^ 
heard it below and opened the heavily- 
barred door to him. 

You are late to-night, sir.’^ 

“ True. I could not come earlier, 
Ann : It was not safe.” 

Poor Karl Andinniau ! Had he but 
known that it was not safe, that night 
later as well as earlier! That is, that 
he had not come in unwatched. For, 
3’ou have understood that it was the 
night mentioned at the close of the last 
chapter, when his interview with Mr. 
Strange had taken place on his return 
from London, and the detective had 
subse(]uentl3" watched him in. 

“Now then, Karl,” began Sir Adam, 
when the room was at length closed 


and lighted, and Ann Hopleyhad gone 
down again, “ what was the precise 
meaning of the cautionar3^ note you 
sent me to-day ? ” 

“ The meaning was to enjoin extra 
caution upon you,” replied Karl, after 
a moment’s hesitation, and an involun- 
tary glance at Rose. 

“ If you have anything to sa3’ and 
are hesitating because my wife is pre- 
sent, 3^11 may speak out freel3',” cried 
the very -i^/ireticent Sir Adam. Rose 
seconded it. 

Speak, Karl, speak,” she said, 
leaning towards him, with a painful 
anxiet3^ in her tone. “ It will be a re- 
lief to me. Nothing that 3’ou or any 
one else can say can be as bad as my 
own fears.” 

“Well, I have found out that that 
man is a London detective,” said Karl, 
deeming it best to tell the whole truth. 
“ He is down here looking for an es- 
caped fugitive. Not you^ Adam : one 
Salter.” 

“One Salter?” echoed Sir Adam, 
testily. “ Who is he ? What Salter ? 
Is there an3" Salter at Foxwood?” 

“ It seems that the police in London 
have been suspecting that he was here, 
and they sent this detective, who calls 
himself Strange, to look after him. Sal- 
ter, however, cannot be found; there’s no 
doubt that the suspicion was altogether 
a mistake ; but unfortunately Strange 
has had his thoughts directed to the 
Maze, and is looking after it.” 

“ After me ? ” cried Adam. 

^‘No. I do not believe there exists 
the smallest suspicion that you are not 
in the family vault on Foxwood church- 
3"ard. He fancies some one is con- 
cealed here, and thinks it must be 
Salter.” 

“ But why on earth should his sus- 
picions be directed to the Maze at all ? ” 
demanded Sir Adam, with a touch 
of his native, haughty heat. 

“Ah, why! We have to thank 
Moore for that, and 3mur own incaution, 
Adam, when 3^11 allowed yourself to 
be seen the night he brought Nurse 
Chaifen in. It secerns the woman 
has talked of it outside; telling peo- 
ple, and Strange amid the rest, that 


202 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


it was either a real geiitlemaa in din- 
ner attire or a ghost in the semblance 
of one. Some have taken unhesitat- 
ingly to the gliost theory, believing it 
to be a remanet of the Throcton times; 
bat detectives are wiser men.’’ 

And so this man is looking after 
the iMaze ! ” 

“Just so. He is after Salter, not 
after you.” 

Sir Adam made no immediate obser- 
vation. Hose, listening eagerly, was 
gazing at Karl. 

Is it sure that Salter is not in the 
jdoce?” she asked in a low tone. 
‘•That he has not been here?” 

Quite sure. Rose. The idea was 
a misapprehension entireh^” replied 
Karl, returning her meaning glance. 
‘•Therefore, you see,” he added, by 
way of giving what reassurance he 
could, “ the man you have so dread- 
ed is not on the track of Adam at all ; 
but on the imaginary one of Salter.” 

“ One scent leads to another,” broke 
forth Sir Adam. “ While the fellow is 
tracking out Salter, he may track out 
me. Who’s to know that he has not 
got a photograph of Adam Andinnian 
iji his pocket, or my face in his 
memory ? ” 

“1 should like to ask him the ques- 
tion whether he knew Sir Adam Andin- 
nian personally ; but 1 fear I dare 
not,” remarked Karl. “ A suspicion 
once awakened would not end. Your 
greatest security lies in their not know- 
ing you are alive.” 

‘•My only security,” corrected Sir 
Adam. ‘‘ Well, Karl, if that man has 
get his eyes directed to the Maze, it 
puts an end to all hope of my trying to 
get away. Little doubt, I suppose, but 
he is watching the outer walls night 
and day; perhaps with a dozen com- 
rades to help him.” 

‘‘ Tor the present, you can only stay 
where you are,” acknowledged Karl. 
‘‘ i have told yoii all this, Adam, to 
make you doubly careful. But for your 
reckless incaution I would have spared 
you the additional uneasiness it must 
bring.” 

“ Even though the. man does know 
me, the chances are that he would not 


find me if he came in,” mused Sir 
Adam aloud. “ With my precautions, 
the task would be somewhat diflicult. 
You know it, Karl.” 

Y"es, but you are not always using 
precautions,” returned Karl. “ Wit- 
ness you here, sitting amidst us openly 
this evening in your dinner dress ! 
DoiiH do it in future, Adam ! conceal 
yourself as you best can — I beseech it 
of you for the love of Heaven. When 
this present active trouble shall have 
subsided — if in God's merc}^ it does so 
subside — why then you may resume 
old habits again. At least, there will 
not be so much risk: but I have al- 
ways considered them hazardous.” 

‘‘ I’ll see,” assented Sir Adam, which 
was a concession, from him, 

“ Be on your guard day and night. 
Let not one moment of either season 
find you off it, or unready for any sur- 
prise or emel•genc 3 ^ Strange talked 
about applying for a search-warrant to 
examine the house. Should he do so, 
I will warn you of it, if possible. But 
your safer course is to be looking for 
the enemy with every ring that the 
gate bell gives, every breath that stirs 
the trees in the labyrinth, every sound 
that vibrates on the air.” 

“ A pretty state of things ! ” growled 
Adam. “ I’m sure I wish I had never 
come here ! ” 

“ Oh that you had not ! ” returned 
Karl. 

“ It’s my proper place, though. It 
is. My dear little son, heir to all, 
ought to be brought up on his own 
property. Karlo, old fellow, that re- 
mark must have a cruel ring on your 
ear, but I cannot put the child out of 
his birthright.” 

“ I should never wish you to do it, 
Adam.” 

“ Some arrangement shall be made 
for the far-ofi-future ; rest assured of 
that — and tell your wife so. In any 
case, Foxwood will be yours for one- 
and-twenty years to come, and the in- 
come 3 ’ou now enjoy, to keep it up with. 
After the boy shall be of age •” 

“ Let us leave those considerations 
for the present,'’ interrupted Karl. 
“ All of us may be dead and buried 


ONLY A NIGHT OWL. 


before then. As for me, I seem not to 
see a single step before me, let alone 
a series of years.’^ 

K/i^^ht, Karl. These dreams lay 
hold of me sometimes, bat it is worse 
than silly to speak of them. Are you 
going?” ^ i. 

Yes. It is late. I sliould not have 
come ill to night, but for vvisKiiig to 
warn ^mu. You will try and take care 
of yourself, Adam?^^ he affectionately 
added, holding out his hand. 

^‘I’ll take care of myself; never 
fear,’’ was Sir Adam’s light answer as 
lie grasped it. “ Look here, brother 
mine,” he resumed after a slight pause, 
and his voice took a deeper tone. 

God knows that I have sutfered too 
heavily for what I did ; He knows that 
my whole life, from the rising up of 
the sun to its going down, from the first 
falling shade of night’s dark curtain to 
its lifting, is one long, unbroken pen- 
ance : and I believe in my heart that 
He will in His compassion shield me 
from further danger. There ! take 
that to comfort you, and go in peace. 
In your care for me, you have needed 
comfort throughout more than I, Karl.” 

Ketaining his brothers hand in his 
while Karl said good night to Kose, 
Adam went down stairs with him, and 
beyond the door after Ann Hopley had 
unbarred it. It was only since the ad- 
vent of the new fears that these extra 
precautions of barring up at sunset had 
been taken. 

‘‘ Don’t come out,” urged Karl. 

J ust a step or two.” 

Karl submitted : he felt secure 
enough against active danger to-night. 
But it was in these trifles that Adam’s 
natural incaution betrayed itself. 

Karl, did 3mu tell all you knew ?” 
he began as the}^ plunged into the 
maze. “ Was there more behind that 
you would not speak before the wife?” 

I told you all, Adam. It is bad 
enough.” 

‘^It might be worse. Suppose they 
were looking after me, for instance, in- 
stead of this fellow Salter ! I shall 
baffle them : I don’t fear.” 

Adam, 3^11 shall not come farther. 
If the man got in one night, he may 
get in another. Good bye.” 


203 

Good bye, dear old anxious fel- 
low! ” 

‘‘ Go in, and get the door barred.” 

All right. A last good night to 
you ! ” 

Karl walked on, through the intri- 
cacies of the maze. Adam stood lis- 
tening for a moment, and then turned 
to retrace his steps. As he did so, the 
sharp dart of pain he was growing ac- 
customed to went through him, turn- 
ing him sick and faint. He seized 
hold of a tree for support, and leaned 
against it. 

“ What on earth can be the matter 
with me?” ran his thoughts after it 
had subsided, and he was getting out 
his handkerchief to wipe from his brow 
the cold drops of agony that had gath- 
ered there. “ As Ann Hople}^ says, I 
ought to see a doctor : but it is not to 
be thought of; and less than ever now, 
with this new bother hanging over the 
house. Hark 1 Oh, it’s onl}' the wind 
rustling the leaves again.” 

He sta3md listening to it. Listen- 
ing in a dream}^ kind of way, his 
thoughts still on his malady. 

I wonder what it is? If the pain 
were in a ditferent direction I might 
think it was the heart. But it is not 
that. When my father was first taken 
ill of his fatal illness, he spoke of 
some such queer attacks of agony. I 
am over young for his • complaint, 
though. Does disease ever grow out 
of anxiety, I wonder? If so ” 

A whirl and a rustle just over his 
head, and Sir Adam started as though 
a blow had been struck him. It was 
but a night owl, flying away from the 
tree above with her dreaiy note and 
beating the air with her wings ; but it 
had served to startle him to terror, and 
he felt as sick and faint again as he 
did just before from the physical pain. 
Wh at nerves he possessed were on the 
extreme tension that night. That Ad- 
am Andinnian, the cool-natured equa- 
ble man, who was the very opposite of 
his sensitive brother Karl, and who 
had been unable to understand what 
nerves were and to laugh at tliose who 
had them — that he could be thus sha- 
ken b}^ merel3" the noise of a night 
bird will serve to show the reader what 


204 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 




his later life had been and how it had 
told upon. him. He did not let it ap- 
pear, even to those about him ; he kept 
up his old role of cool carelessness — 
and in a degree he was careless still 
and in ordinary moments most incau- 
tious from sheer want of tliought — but 
there could be no doubt that he was 
experiencing to the full all tlie bitter 
mockery, the never ceasing dread and 
hazard of his position. In the early 
days, when the attempted escape from 
Portland Island was only in contem- 
plation, Karl had foreseen what the life 
must be if he did escape. An exist- 
ence of miserable concealment ; of 
playing at hide and seek with the law ; 
a world-wide apprehension, lying on 
him always, of being retaken. In 
short, a hunted man who must not 
dare to approach the haunts of his 
fellow-men, and of wdiom every other 
man must be the necessary enemy. 
Even so had it turned out : Adam 
Andinnian was realizing it to the full. 
A great horror lay upon him of being 
recaptured : but it ma}" be questioned 
whether, had the choice been given 
liim, he would not rather have remain- 
ed a prisoner than have escaped to this. 
Even as he stood there now, in the 
damp still night, with all the nameless, 
weird surroundings of fancy that night 
sometimes brings when the spirit is in 
tune for it, he was realizing it to his 
soul. 

The glitter of the stars, twinkling 
in their dusky canopy, shone down 
upon him through tlie interstices of 
the trees, thinning their leaves with 
the approach of autumn ; and he re- I 
maiiied on, amid the gloom, lost in re- 
flection. 

I should be better off tliere^ he 
murmured, gazing upwards in thought 
at the Heaven that was bejmnd ; and, 
it may be, that Thou, 0 my God, knovv- 
est that, in thy pitiful mercy. As 
Thou wilt. Life has become but a 
weary one here, full of pains and penal- 
ties.” 

Master ! ’’ came to him in a hushed, 
doubtful voice at this juncture. ‘^Mas- 
ter, are you within hearing? My mis- 
tress is feeling anxious, and wants the 
door bolted.’^ 


^^Ay, bolt and bar it well, Ann,” be 
said, going forward. ‘‘ But barred 
doors will not keep out all the foes of 
man.’’ 

Meanwhile Karl had got through 
the Maze; and cautiousl}^ after listen- 
ing, let himself out at the gate. No 
human being, that he could discern, 
was within sight or hearing; and he 
crossed the road at once. Tlien, but 
not before, he became aware that his 
agent, Mr. Smith, was in that favorite 
spot and attitude of his, leaning on his 
arms on the little garden gate, his 
green glasses discarded — as they al- 
waj's were after sunset. 

‘‘Good night,” said Karl in passing. 
But some words of the agent’s served 
to arrest his progress. 

“Would you mind stepping in for 
one moment. Sir Karl ? I wanted to 
say just a word to you, and have been 
watching for you to come out.” 

“ Is it anything particular ? ” asked 
Karl, turning in at the gate at once, 
whicli Mr. Smith held open. 

“ I will get a light, sir, if you will 
wait just an instant.” 

Karl heard the striking of a match 
in-doors, and Mr. Smith reappeared in 
the passage with a candle. He usher- 
ed Karl into the room on the left-hand; 
the best room, that was rarely used. 

“This one has got its shutters 
closed,” was the explanatory remark. 
“ I generally keep the others open till 
I go to bed.” 

“ Tell me at once what it is you 
want,” said Karl. “ It is late, and I 
shall have my liousehold wondering 
where I am.” 

“ Well, Sir Karl, first of all, I wish 
to ask if you are aware that you were 
watched into the Maze to-night.” He 
spoke in the lowest whisper ; scarcely 
above his breath. The agent’s one 
servant had been in bed at the top of 
the house long before ; but he was a 
cautious man. 

“ No. Who watched me ? ” 

“Two people, sir. One was Miss 
Blake, the lady staying with you at 
the Court ; the other was a confounded 
fellow who is at Foxwood for no good, 

I guess, and is pushing his prying nose 
on the sly into everything.” 


0]SLY A NIGHT OWL. 


205 


3 'ou mean Strange 

Tllat^s the name: a lodger at 
Mother Jinks’s. He and the lady 
watched you in, Sir Karl ; they stood 
close b}" the gate among the trees ; 
and then they walked off down the 
road together.’^, 

KarPs pulses beat a shade more 
quick l 3 ^ “ Why should the\’’ have 

been watching me? What could be 
their motive ? 

Miss Blake did not intend to watch 
— as I take it. I saw her coming 
along with a sharpish step from the 
direction of that blessed St. Jerome’s 
— Cattacomb may have been treating 
his flock to a nocturnal service. When 
she was close upon the Maze she must 
have heard your footsteps, for she drew 
suddenl}'- behind the trees to hide her- 
self. After jmu were in, she came out 
of her shelter, and another with her — 
the man Strange. So he must have 
been hidden there before-hand, Sir 
Karl : and, I should sa^’, to watch.” 

Karl was silent. He did not like to 
hear this. It seemed to menace fur- 
ther danger. 

I went in to w^arn Sir Adam 
jigainst this same man,” he observed ; 

to tell him never to be off his guard 
day or night. He is a London de- 
tective ! ” 

•‘What — Strange is?” exclaimed 
the agent, with as much astonish- 
ment as his low tones allowed him 
to express. A London detective, Sir 
Karl ? ” 

“ Yes, he is.” 

Mr. Smith’s face fell considerably. 
But — what is he doing down here ? ” 
he inquired. Who’s lie after ? Surely 
not Sir Adam ? ” 

“ No, not Sir Adam. He is after 
some criminal who — who does not exist 
in the place at all,” added Karl, not 
choosing to be more explicit, consider- 
ing that it was the man before him 
whuin he had suspected of being the 
said criminal, and feeling ashamed of 
his suspicions now that he had to spealt 
of it with him face to face. “ The 
danger is, that in looking after one 
man the police may come upon the 
track of another.” 


The agent nodded his head. ‘‘But 
surely they do not suspect the Maze?” 

“They do suspect the Maze,” re- 
plied Karl. “ Owing to the tattling of 
the woman Mr. Moore took there — 
Nurse Chaffen — they suspect it.” 

Mr. Smith allowed a very unortho- 
dox word to issue tlirough his closed 
teeth, applied not only to the lady in 
question, but to ladies in general. 

“The man Strange has been down 
here looking after some one whom he 
can’t find; who no doubt is not in the 
neighborhood at all, and never has 
been,” resumed Karl. “ Strange’s 
opinion, however, was — and is — that 
the man is here, concealed. When 
he heard Chaffen’s tale of the gentle- 
man she saw in evening dress at the 
MazeH[)ut whom she never saw again 
and therefore concluded he was hidden 
somewhere about the house not to show 
himself to her, he caught up the notion 
that it was the man he was after. Hence 
his suspicions of the Maze, and his 
watchings.” 

“It’s a very unfortunate thing!” 
breathed the agent. 

“ You see now, Mr. Smith, how 
much better it had been if Sir Adam 
had never come here. Or, being here, 
if he had been allowed to go away 
again.” 

“ He can’t attempt it now,” cried the 
agent impulsivel 3 \ “ With a detec- 
tive’s eyes about, it would be to walk 
straight into the lion’s mouth.” 

“ Just so. We all know that.” 

‘•I wish to heaven I could get him 
away!” spoke the agent impulsively, 
and it was evident his heart was in his 
words. “Until now I believed he was 
as safe here as he could be elsewhere 
— or safer. What the devil brings a 
confounded detective in this quiet 
place ? The malignant fiend or some 
implacable fate must have sent him. 
Sir Karl, the danger is great. We 
must not shut our eyes to it.” 

Alas, Karl Andinnian felt that, in a 
more cruel degree than the agent could. 
It was his work ; it was he who had 
brought this hornet’s nest about his 
unfortunate’s brother’s head. The con- 
sciousness of it lay heavily upon him in 


0 


203 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


that moment ; throat and tongue and 
lips were alike parched with the fever 
of remorse. 

May I ask you for a glass of wa- 
ter, ]\[r. Smith ? broke next from the 
saitl dry lips. 

‘‘ IMl get it for you in a moment, 
sir,” said the agent, rising with alac- 
rity. 

Karl heard another match struck 
outside, and then the steps of the agent 
retreating in the direction of the pump. 
Ill his restlessness of mind he could 
not sic still, but rose to pace the room. 
A small set of ornamental bookshelves, 
hanging against the wall, caught his 
attention : he halted before it and took 
down a volume ; mechanically, rather 
than with any motive. 

“ Philip Salter from his lovino^oth- 
er.” 

The words met Karl’s eyes as he op- 
ened the book. Just for a moment he 
questioned whether his sight was de- 
ceiving him. But no. Tltere they 
were, in a lady’s hand,\he ink dry and 
faded with time. It was Bunyan’s 
^‘Pilgrim’s Progres’S'.^’ 

Is it Salter, after all ? ” mentally 
breath. ed Karl. 

Mr. Smith came in again with the 
glass of water as the doubt was run- 
ning through Karl’s mind. Thanking 
his agent for the water, he drank it at 
a draught, and sat down with the book 
in his hand. 

“I have been amongst your books, 
you see, Mr. Smith. A sound old vol- 
ume, this."” 

“ So it is, Sir Karl. I dip into it mj?-- 
self now and then.” 

Did you know this — this Mr. Phil- 
ip Salter ? ’’—holding the book open at 
the words. 

For answer the agent threw his 
eyes straight into Karl’s face, and paus- 
ed. ‘‘ Did you know him. Sir Karl ?” 

“ I never knew him. I have heard 
all about him.” 

Ay, few persons but have, I 
expect,” returned the agent, with a 
kind of groan. ‘‘ He was my cousin, 
sir.” 

Your cousin ! ” echoed Karl. 

‘‘ My own cousin : we were sisters’ 


sons. He was Philip Salter ; I, Philip 
Smith.” 

Karl’s eyes were opened in more 
senses than one. 

“ The fool that Philip Salter showed 
himself!” ejaculated IMiilip Smith — ■ 
and it was evident by the bitter tone 
that the subject was a sore one. I 
was in his office. Sir Karl, a clerk un- 
der him ; but he was younger than I. 
He might have done so well : none of 
us had the slightest idea but what he 
was doing well. It was all through 
private and illegitimate speculation. 
He got into a hole where the mire was 
deep, and he used dangerous means 
when at his wits’ end to get himself 
out of it. It did for him what you 
know, and it ruined me ; for being his 
cousin, men thought I must have 
known of it, and my place was taken 
from me.” 

“ Where is he now?” asked Karl. 

I don’t know. Sometimes we think 
he is dead. After his escape we had 
reason to believe that he got off to Can- 
ada, but we were never made certain of 
it, and have never heard from him. 
He may be in some of the backwoods 
there, afraid to write.” 

‘‘ And this was his book ? ” 

“ Yes. Most of his small belong- 
ings came into my hands. The affair 
killed his mother: broke her heart. He 
was all she had, save one daughter. 
Sir Karl, do you know what I’d do if 
I had the power?” fiercely continued 
Smith. I would put down by penal 
laws all these cursed speculators who, 
men of straw themselves, issue their 
plausible schemes only to deceive and 
defraud a confiding, credulous public ; 
all these betting and gambling rogues 
who lay hold of honest natures to lure 
them to their destruction. But for 
them, Philip Salter had been holding 
up his untarnished head yet.” 

Ay,” assented Karl. But that will 
never be, so long as tlie greed of gold 
shall last. It is a state of affairs that 
can belong only to a Utopian world; 
not to this.” 

He put out his hand to Philip Smith 
when he left : a thing he had never 
done voluntarily before, in his sensitive 




ONE DAY IN HER LIFE. 


207 


regret for having wronged the man in 
his heart : and went home with his 
increased burden of perplexity and 
pain. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

ONE DAY IN HER LIFE. 

Life was to the last degree dreary 
for Lucy Andinnian. But for the ex- 
citement imparted to her mind from 
that mysterious building, the Maze, 
and the trouble connected with it, she 
could scarcely have continued to goon, 
and bear. It was not a healthy ex- 
citement : no emotion can be, that has 
jealousy or anger for its origin. Let 
ns take one day of her existence, and 
see wdiat it was: the day following the 
one last told of. 

A mellow, bright morning. The 
pleasant sun, so prolific of his bounties 
that year, w’as making the earth glad 
with his renewed light, and many a 
heart with it. Not so Lucy^s : it seem- 
ed to her that never a gleam of glad- 
ness could illumine hers again. Slie 
sat in her room, parti}" dressed, after a 
night of much sleeplessness. What 
sleep she had v/as disturbed, as usual, 
by dreams tinged with the unpleasant- 
ness of her waking thoughts. A white 
wrapper enfolded her, and Aglae was 
doing her hair. The woman saw how 
weary and spiritless her mistress was 
becoming; but not a suspicion of the 
true cause suggested, itself ; for Lucy 
and her husband took care to keep up 
appearances and guarded their secret 
well. Aglae attempted to say a word 
now and again, but received no encour- 
agement : Lucy was buried in a reve- 
rie. 

We are growing more estranged 
day by day,^’ ran her thoughts. He 
went to London yesterday and never 
said why ; never gave me the least ex- 
planation. After he came home at 
night and had taken something to eat, 
he went out again. To the IMaze, of 
course.” 

Will my lady please to have her 
hair in rolls or plaits this morning?” 


As you please, Aglae.” And, 
the weary answer given, her thoughts 
ran on again. 

‘‘I fancy Theresa has seen him go 
there. I can’t help fancying it. She 
had all her severe rnlanneron last night 
when she came in, but was so pityingly 
kind to me. — And I could bear all so 
much better if she would not be pitiful. 
It was past ten. That poor Mrs. Bell 
is likely to die, and Theresa had been 
to read to her. I kept hoping she 
would go to bed, and she did not. Is 
it wrong of 7?ie to sit up, I wonder, to 
see what time he comes in ? — would 
Margaret say it was ? She got her 
silks and her work about, and I had 
mine. He has hardly ever been so late 
as last night. It was half past eleven. 
What right had she to keep him, or he 
to stay? He said in a light, indifferent 
kind of tone by way of excuse, that he 
had been talking w"ith Smith and the 
time slipped by unheeded. Theresa 
drew in her lips till she looked to have 
none at all, and gave him just one 
scornful glance. Yes ; she had cer- 
tainly seen him go in elsewhere, and 
she knew that the excuse was not true. 
I took my candle, and came up here — 
and have had one of my most wretched 
nights again — and neither I nor Aglae 
could find that book that comforts me. 
It was very cruel of Karl to marry me : 
and yet — and yet — would I be unmar- 
ried if I could ? Would I break even 
from this disturbing life, if it involved 
a separation forever? I fear not. The 
not seeing him day by day would be a 
worse fate than even this is.” 

Did my lady think to ask Sir Karl 
whether he had put away that book 
that is missing ? ” interrupted Aglae, 
quite pnconscious that her lady had not 
seen Sir Karl since the book was miss- 
ed, any more than she herself had : 
and moreover that he was not likely 
to see it. 

I have not asked him yet. Per- 
haps I took it down stairs yesterday.” 

Which robe, my lady ? ” 

The Swiss muslin.” 

Aglae left her when she was ready, 
and Lucy took her Bible for a few min- 
utes, and said her prayers. Never did 


208 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


prayers ascend from a more wrun^ or 
troubled heart. The book slie had mis- 
laid was one of those little gems of 
consolation that can only be estimated 
in need. It had been given to Lucy 
by Miss Sum nor. 

Slie stood a few minutes at the open 
window, gazing at the sunny morning. 
The variegated leaves of the hanging 
trees getting, alas, bare as Lucy’s heart 
felt ; the smooth lawn, which Maclean 
was rolling, the still bright flowers, the 
sunlight glittering on the lodge : all 
these fair things were hers : and yet, 
she could enjoy them not. 

She went down : putting away all 
the sadness from her face that she 
could put, and looking in her pretty 
dress as fair as the sunshine. Hewitt 
came in with the coffee and other 
things, and Lucy took her place at 
table. They never waited for Miss 
Blake. St. Jerome’s was exacting, and 
IMr. Cattacomb somewhat uncertain as 
to the precise time at which he let out 
Ins flock. Hewitt went across the 
lawn to tell his master, who was talk- 
ing with Maclean, that the breakfast 
was ready. 

Karl came in through the open doors 
of the window. She glanced up and 
hid her e^’es again : the more attractive 
lie looked — and he always did look at- 
tractive — the greater her sense of pain. 
The fresh air was sweet and pleasant, 
and a goo.d fire burnt in the grate. 

Good morning, Lucy.” 

She put down the sugar tongs to 
give him her answering hand, and 
wished him good morning in a tone 
that no eavesdropper could have found 
fault with. They were quite civil to 
each otlier; nay, courteous; their in- 
tercourse much like that of two friends, 
or a brother and sister. After plajdng 
so long as this for the sake of keeping 
up appearances to their household and 
the world, it had become quite easy — 
a thing of habit. 

“ Wliat shall I give you ? ” he asked. 

An egg, please.” 

Maclean thinks that fir tree is dy- 
ing.” 

“ Which fir tree ? ” 

The large one by the ferns. He 


wants to root it up and make a bed 
there. What do you think ? ” 

I don’t mind how it is. Is your 
coffee sweet enough ? ” 

‘‘ Yes.” 

Hewitt appeared with the letters. 
Two for Miss Blake, one for Lucy, 
none for Sir Karl. Lucy read hers; 
glad of the help it afforded to occupa- 
tion : for she did but toy with her 
breakfast, having little appetite now. 
Something seemed always to be in her 
throat, and prevent her swallowing. 

It is from mamma,” said Lucy. 

She is going to stay with my aunt in 
London. I suppose you did not call 
on Lady Southell yesterday ? ” 

‘a? Ko.” 

^‘You have promised to do so for 
some time past.” 

But I have not been able. When 
the mind is harassed with worr}' and 
business, social calls get put aside. Is 
Mrs. Cleeve well ? ” 

“ Yes, and p)apa better. He is go- 
ing to stay at home himself. They 
desire to be remembered to you.” 

Karl bent his head in acknowledg- 
ment. And thus, talking indifferently 
of this and that, the meal came to an 
end. Karl asked his wife if she would 
go out to look at the fir tree and hear 
what Maclean said — he W’as always 
scrupulous in consulting her wishes as 
the Court’s mistress. She got her 
parasol at once. 

Karl held out his arm, and she took 
it. As they went down the steps. 
Miss Blake appeared. They waited 
to greet her, and to shake hands. 

“You must want your breakfiist, 
Theresa. There are two letters for 
you on the table. Oh, and I have 
heard from mamma. She is going to 
stay with Aunt Southell in London.” 

Lucy took Karl’s arm again, and 
they went off with the ganlener. 
Miss Blake probably did want her 
breakfast; but she spent a minute or 
two to look after them. 

“ I \lt)nder if anj^ one was ever so 
great a hypocrite ? ” ran her comment. 
“And to think that I once believed 
him to be the most noble and best of 
men ! He dared to speak disparaging- 


O'SE DAY IN HER LIFE. 


209 


ly of that pure saint, IMr. Cattacomb, 
the otlier day. Good patience ! what 
contrasts there are in tlie world. And 
the same heaven made tliem both, and 
permits both ! One cannot understand 
it here. As to Lucy — but I wash my 
liands of her.^’ 

Lucy was soon back a^^ain. "Miss 
Blake had but read her letters and be- 
^un her breakfast. Karl had passed 
into his own room. 

The morning wore on. Tlieresa 
went out again ; Karl was shut up, and 
then lie went out ; Lucy was left in 
the liouse alone. It was nsuall}^ so; 
she liad given her orders and no earth- 
ly thing else remained to do — save let 
her heart prey upon itself. When she 
had gone pretty nearl}’ out of her 
mind, she put her bonnet on, and be- 
took herself to Mrs. Whittle — the 
widow of the man who had died sud- 
denly at the station in the summer. 
Passing out at the extreme gate of the 
court, Lucy had but to skirt the wood, 
and in tliree minutes was at the cot- 
tage : one of a row. 

She had taken to come here when 
she was very particularly miserable — 
as she felt this dav. For the lesson it 

t/ 

read to her was most salutary, acting 
as a kind of tonic. That this poor 
woman was slowly dying, there could 
not be much doubt of. She had been 
in ill health before her husband’s 
death, and the blow struck too severe- 
ly on the weakened frame. But for 
Karl and his wife the family must 
have taken refuge in the work-house. 
Lucy went in and sat down on a low 
wooden stool. jMrs. W^hittle, about to- 
day, was in the eas}^ chair, sent to her 
from the Court, her three little girls 
around her, the eldest eight years of 
age. Two 3^11 nger children, boys, j 
plaj^ed on the floor. | 

“ I am teaching them to sew, 
ma’am,’’ she said to Luc}’. “ Bessy, 
she has got now her hand pretty well 
into it; but the other two haven’t. 
AYhen I lie awake at nights, i#}" ladj", 
and think how little it is the}^ know of 
any sort of labor 3"et, and how soon I 
may be taken from them and be able 
to teach no more, my heart fails me.' 
13 


I can only set on to cr3^ and to \)T 3 y 
God to forgive me all my short-com- 
ings.” 

The tears had come into her eves 
and were falling down her hectic cheeks. 
She was very prett^y once, but ti)e face 
had wasted now. Lucy’s eyelashes 
were wet. 

“ But I think you look better, IMrs. 
Whittle. As to short-comings — we 
all might own to those.” 

It seems to me I could have brought 
them on better if I’d known what was 
coming, ma’am. Until that night when 
mv husband was carried home on a 
shutter, I had not had a thought of 
death, as likely to concern any of us at 
home here. And now the time seems 
to be coming to an end and I’m leaving 
them, and they know nothing. The 
other finger, Janie : you can’t stitch 
on your middle finger.” 

‘‘ T hope 3’ou will get better yet,” 
said Luc}'. 

I don’t think so, ma’am. I should 
like to if I could. The very distress 
that is upon me about my children 
seems as if it kept me back. Nobod3^ 
can know what it is to leave a family 
of young children to the world, till thej' 
come to it themselves. There’s a dread- 
ful yearning upon me always, my lady, 
an aching like, at the thought of it. 
Mr. Sum nor, he is very good and kind, 
and he comes here and tells me about 
heaven and how free from care I 
shall be, once I get to it. But oh, 
ma’am, wlien I must leave these lit- 
tle ones here, with npbod}^ to say a 
word to keep them from the world’s 
bad ways, how do I know that t/ie^ 
will ever get to heaven ?” 

The woman liad never spoken out as 
she was speaking to-day. Generally she 
had seemed calm and resigned — to get 
well, or to die. Lucy was intensely 
sorry for her : she would take herself to 
task for being so miserable with this 
real distress close at hand, and for at 
least the rest of the da}^ allow it to 
read her a salutary lesson. 

Passing in at the small gate again, 
she made her way to the acacia tree 
and sat down under it, letting her par- 
asol fall to the ground. Karl, who was 


210 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


at home ac^ain, conid see her from liis 
window, hut he did not attempt to ^-o 
to lier. And so slie idled awaj- the 
morning in weariness. 

Theresa appeared at luncheon ; but 
Sir Karl did not. Lucy remembered 
that a parcel she was expecting from 
London ought to be at the station 
(only an autumn mantle) and thought 
she would go in the pony chaise for it. 
Anything fora change — for a break in 
her monotonous life. So the chaise 
was ordered, and the groom to drive it. 
It came round, and she was getting in 
when Karl approached. 

“ Are you going to drive yourself, 
Lucy ? ” 

“ Oh, no. Kobert is coming.” 

I will go, then. We shall not want 
you, Robert.” 

But I was only going to the sta- 
tion,” she said. 

To the station ? ” 

I think my new mantle may be 
there.” 

He drove off, turning towards the 
station. The mantle was not there : 
and KarT continued his drive as far as 
Basham. The}^ said very little to one 
another. Just a remark on the scenery 
or on any object passing : nothing 
more. Karl pulled up at the saddler’s 
shop to give some directions about a 
•set of harness they were making for 
him. Just as he got into the chaise 
again, somebody passed, and took off 
his hat with a “ Good morning, Sir 
Karl.” 

It was Mr. Tatton. Karl wondered 
what he was doing in Basham. Of course 
the detective might be there for fifty 
things, totally unconnected with his 
profession : but nevertheless the sight 
of him awoke uneasiness in Karl’s 
mind. When a heavy dread lies upon 
us, the most trifling event will serve 
to stir up suspicion and augment fear^ 

Karl drove home again, and Lucy 
went up to her little sitting-room. She 
was owing a letter to Mrs. Cleeve, but 
lield back from writing it. Great 
though her affection was for her mo- 
ther, she hated now to write. It was 
so impossible to fill up a letter — as it 
seemed to Lucy — and yet guard her 


secret. She couM not say ^^Karl and 
I are doing this;, or Karl and I are 
doing the other : ” and yet if she did not 
say something of tliis kind of their home 
life, or mention his name, her fanc}’’ 
suggested tliat it would look strange 
and might arouse doubt. Conscience 
makes us cowards. She might have 
sent a letter that day, sa3dng, I have 
just got home from a drive with Karl,” 
and ‘‘ Karl and I decided this morning 
to have the fir tree b}^ tlie rocks dug 
up,” and it would be quite true : but 
Luc 3" in her strict integrity so disliked 
the deceit the words would imply, that 
she shrank from writing them. 

Footsteps on the gravel below : his 
footsteps and she went to the window 
to glance out. Yes, he was going 
straight down the gravel walk and 
through the large gates. Going where? 
Her heart beat a little quicker as the 
question crept in. To the Maze? The 
query was always suggesting itself 
now. 

He turned that way — and that was 
all she could tell, for the trees hid the 
road from her view. He might be 
going to his agent’s; he might be going 
to some part or other of his estate ; but 
to Lucy’s jealous mind the probability 
seemed perfectly’ clear that his destina- 
tion was that shut-iii house, which she 
had alread}' begun to hate so much. 
And yet — she believed that he did not 
go in b}^ day-time. Lucy wondered 
whether Fair Rosamond, who had dis- 
turbed the peace of the Queen, was 
half as fair as this Rosamond, now 
turning her own poor heart to sick- 
ness. 

More footsteps on the gravel : merry 
tongues, light laughter. Lucy looked 
out again. Some of the jmung ladies 
from the village had called for Theresa, 
and they were now going on to St. 
Jerome’s. For laughter such as that, 
for the real lightness of heart that must 
be its inevitable accompaniment, Lucy 
thought she would have bartered a 
portion ,of her remaining life. 

Aglae came in, her hands and arms 
full of clouds of tulle and blue ribbons. 

Look here, my lad}’ — these Eng- 
rish modistes have no taste at all. 


ONE DAY I 

Tliey can’t judge, they. They send 
this heavy satin ribbon saying it is the 
fashion, and they put it in every part 
of the beautiful light robe, so that 
you cannot tell which is r(^e, the 
tulle or the ribbon. My lady is not 
going to wear that, say 1; an English 
modiste might wear it, but my young 
lady never. So I take the ribbons off.” 

Lucy looked round listlessly. What 
did all these adornments matter to her ? 
Karl never seemed to see now what she 
was dressed in : and if he had seen, he 
would not have cared. 

But what is it you are asking me, 
Aglae ? ” 

I would ask my lady to let me put 
just a quarter of as much ribbon on : 
and silk ribbon, not ^atin. I have some 
silk in the house, and this satin will 
come in for a heavier robe.” 

“ Do whatever 3^011 like, Aglae.” 

That’s well,” said Aglae. But I 
wish my lady would not show herself 
quite so indifferent,” added the woman 
. to herself as she withdrew. She could 
not care less if she were the old grand- 
mother.” 

The afternoon passed to its close, 
Lucy reading a bit and working a bit 
to beguile th^ time. Whether the 
book or the work lay before her, her 
mind was alike far away, brooding over 
the trouble that could never leave it. 
Then she went down to dinner in her 
evening dress of silk. Ko stranger was 
present : only herself, Karl and The- 
resa. It was generally thus : neither 
she nor he had spirits to bring guests 
about them often. Theresa told them 
of a slight accident that had happened 
at the station that afternoon, and it 
served for a topic of conversation. Din- 
ner was barely over when Miss Diana 
Moore called in. She was not given to 
time her visits ceremoniousl}^ ; but she 
was always welcome, for Karl and 
Lucy both liked her. Miss Diana 
generall}^ gave them the news of the 
place, and she began now. In some 
inexplicable manner ^he conversation 
turned on the Maze. At least, some- 
thing was said that caused the place to 
be incidentally mentioned, and it 
served to draw Miss Diana’s thoughts 


N HER LIFE. 211 

to what they might not otherwise have 
reverted to. 

The senseless geese that people 
are ! ” she cried. Did you hear of 
that ghost story that arose about the 
Maze ? ” 

Karl bit his lip. Lucy looked at 
Miss Diana; she had heard noth- 
ing ! ^ 

Mother Jinks told me to my face 
the other day that there could not be 
a doubt it was Mr. Throcton’s son 
haunting it. My brother — Mr. Moore 
— dias seen it, she said, as well as Kurse 
Chaffen : a gentleman in evening 
clothes, who appeared to them and 
vanished away again. She believed it, 
too.” 

I fancy it has been rather more 
materially accounted for,” put in iVliss 
Blake, not at all sorry of the opportu- 
nity to give a slide fling at Sir Karl. 

Well, what I hear people have 
found out now is, that the ghost was 
only Sir Karl Andinnian who had 
called there after or before his dinner,” 
cried Miss Diana laughing. “What 
do you sa}’’ to it. Sir Karl ? ” 

Sir Karl did not know what to say. 
On the one hand it was most essential 
to do away if possible with the impres- 
sion that any strange gentleman had 
been at the Maze ; on the other, he did 
not care to admit that he paid evening 
visits there. Of the two evils, how- 
ever, the last was the least. 

It may have been myself. Miss 
Diana. I cannot say, I’m sure. I re- 
member I went over one evening, and 
staj^ed a few minutes.” 

“ But it was while Mrs. Grey was ill 
with fever.” 

“ J ust so. I went to inquire after 
her.” 

“ Well, I suppose it was you, then. 
I asked William about it, but he is 
as close as wax when he likes, and i)ro- 
fessed not to know what I was talking 
of. One thing is clear : that he could 
not have recognized you. Sir Karl. It 
was nearly dark, I believe. That little 
baby at the Maze is very delicate.” 

“ By the way. Miss Diana, talking 
of sick people, what does Mr. Moore 
think of poor Whittle’s widow ? ” asked 


212 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


Sir Karl. My wife says she is very 
ili.’’ 

The conversation was turned — Sir 
KaiTs ohjecLin speaking. Miss Diana 
talked of Mrs. Whittle and then went 
on to other subjects. 

But it will be readily seen how cruel- 
ly these and similar incidents tried 
Lucy Andinnian. Had an angel come 
down from heaven to assure her the 
gentleman in evening attire was not 
Sir Karl, she would have refused to 
believe it. Nay, he had, so to say, 
confessed it in her presence. 

Miss Diana departed. Karl went 
out with her and did not come in again. 
Luc}^ knew he had gone to the Maze. 
She went up to her room and stood 
there in the dark watching for his re- 
turn. It was nearly ten when he ap- 
peared : he must have been spending 
all that time with her rival ! 

Even so. Sir Karl had spent it at 
the Maze. As the autumn evenings 
grew darker, he could go over earlier 
and come away earlier. Lucy won- 
dered whether this state of things was 
to last for ever, and how much longer 
she could continue to bear and make 
no sign. 

To her weary bed again went she. 
To the anguish of her outraged heart ; 
to her miserable sleepless hours, and 
her still more miserable dreams. Jeal- 
ousy as utterly mistaken and founda- 
tionless has too often inflicted torment 
lively as this. 

It is a green-eyed monster, which 
doth make the food it feeds on.’’ 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

BAFFLED. 

We have to go now to Mr. Strange. 
That eminent detective was, to tell 
the trutli, somewhat puzzled ; thrown, 
so to say, slightly on his beam ends. 
The earnest assurances of Sir Karl 
Andinnian — that the individual he had 
been suspecting was the agent Smith, 
and that there was not, and could not 
be, any gentleman residing at the 
Maze — had made their due impression, 


for he saw that Sir Karl was a man 
whose word might be trusted. At the 
same time he detected, or thought he 
detected an undue eagerness on Sir 
Karl’s part to impress this upon him 
during'the interview they held in the 
road ; an eagerness which the matter it- 
self did not justify, unless Sir Karl had 
a private and personal motive for it. 
Musing on this, Mr. Strange had con- 
tinued to walk about instead of going 
on to his lodgings ; and when Miss 
Blake surprised him underneath the 
trees at the Maze gate — or rather, sur- 
prised herself by finding him there — 
he had not sought the spot to watch 
the gate, but as a shelter of seclusion 
while he thought. The stealth en- 
trance of Sir Karl Andinnian with a 
key taken from his pocket, and the 
whispered communication from Miss 
Blake, threw altogether another light 
upon the matter, and served to show 
what Sir Karl’s personal motive might 
be. According to that Lady’s hints. 
Sir Karl was in the habit of stealing 
into the Maze, and that it was no one 
but Sir Karl himself who had been 
seen by Nurse Chaffen. 

Mr. Detective Strange could not con- 
ceal from his acute brain that, if this 
were true, his own case was almost as 
good as disposed of, and he might pre- 
pare to go back to town. Salter, the prey 
he was patiently searching out, was at 
the Maze or nowhere — for Mr. Strange 
had turned the rest of the locality inside 
out, and knew that it contained no trace 
of liim. If the gentleman in the even- 
ing dress, seen by nurse Chaflen, was 
Sir Karl Andinnian, it could, not have 
been Philip Salter : and, as his sole mo- 
tive for suspecting the Maze was that 
worthy woman’s account of him she 
had seen, why the grounds of suspicion 
seemed slipping from under him. 

He tliought it out well that night. 
Well and thoroughly. The tale was 
certainly likely and plausible. Sir 
Karl Andinnian did not appear to be 
one who would embark on this kind of 
private expedition ; but as the detective 
said to himself, one could not answer 
for one’s own brother. Put it down as ^ 
being Sir Karl that the woman saw, 


BAFFLED. 


213 


why then the mystery of her not hav- 
ing seen him again was at an end : for 
while she was there he would not be 
likely to go to the Maze and show him- 
self a second time. 

The more Mr. Strange thought it 
out the further reason he found for 
suspecting that this must be the true 
state of the case. It did not please 
him. Clear the Maze of all suspicion 
as to Salter, and it would become evi- 
dent that they had been misled and 
that so much valuable time had been 
wasted. He should have to go back to 
Scotland Yard and report the failure. 
Considering that he had latterly been 
furnishing reports of the prey being 
found and as good as in his hands, the 
prospect was mortifying. This would 
be the second consecutive case in which 
he had signally failed. 

But it was by no means Mr. Strange’s 
intention to take the failure for grant- 
ed. He was too wary a detective to do 
that without seeking for proof, and he 
had not done with Foxwood yet. The 
first person he must see was Mrs. 
Chaffen. 

Somewhat weary with his night re- 
flections and not feeling quite so re- 
freshed as he ought, for the thing had 
kept him awake till morning, Mr. 
Strange sat down to his breakfast lan- 
guidlj^ Watchful Mrs. Jinks, who 
patronized her easy lodger and was 
allowed to visit his tea and sugar and 
butter and cheese with impunity, ob- 
served this as she whipped off the cov- 
er from a dish of mushrooms that look- 
ed as though it might tempt an an- 
chorite. 

“ You’ve got a headache this morn- 
ing, Mr. Strange, sir. Is it bad?” 

Oh, very bad,’’ said Mr. Strange, 
who did not forget to keep up his role 
of delicate health as occasion afforded 
opportunity. 

‘‘ What tilings them headaches are ! ” 
deplored Mrs. Jinks. Hobody knows 
whence they come nor how to drive 
’em awaj". Betsey Chaffen was nurs- 
ing a patient in the spring who’d had 
bilious fever and rheumatis combined; 
and to hear what she said about that 
poor dear old gentleman’s head ” 


By tlie way, how is Mrs. Chaffen ? ” 
interrupted Mr. Strange, with scant 
ceremony and no regard tc/the old gen- 
tleman’s head. I have not seen her 
lately.” 

She was here a day or two ago, 
sir; down in my kitchen. As to how 
she is, she’s as strong as need be : 
which its thanks to you for inquiring. 
She never has nothing the matter with 
her.” 

Is she out nursing ? ” 

Hot now. She expects to be called 
out soon, and is waiting at home for 
it.” 

Where is her home ? ” 

Down Foxglove Lane, sir, turning 
I off b}^ the church. Bull the stonema- 
I son lives in the end house there, and 
she have lodged with ’em for years. 
Bull tells her in joke sometimes that 
some of ’em ought to be took ill, with 
such a nurse as her in the house. 
Which they never are, for it’s as 
healthy a spot as any in Foxwood.” 

Mr. Strange had a knack of politely 
putting an end to his landlady’s gossip 
when he pleased, and of sending her 
awa3\ He did so now : and the widow 
transferred herself and her tongue to 
Mr. Cattacomb’s parlor. 

People must hold spring and autumn 
cleanings, or where would our carpets 
and curtains be ? Mrs. Chaffen, though 
occupying but one humble room (with 
a choice piece of" furniture in it that 
was called a '^‘^iireau ” .^y day and 
was a bed by night) was not exempt 
from the general sanitary obligations. 
Mrs. Bull considered that she institu- 
ted these periodical bouts of scrubbing 
oftener than there was occasion for : 
but Betse}^ Chaffen liked to take care 
of her furniture — which was her own 
— and was moreover a cleanly woman. 

On this self-same morning she was 
in the thick of it : her gown turned up 
about her waist, her hands plunged 
into a bucket of soap-suds, herself on 
her knees, and the furniture all heaped 
together a’top of the shut-up bureau 
in the corner, when one of the young 
Bulls came in with the astounding 
news that a gentleman was asking for 
her. 


214 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


Goodness bless me ! ” cried the 
poor women, tnrninp^ cold all over, it 
can’t be that I’m fetched out, can it, 
Sam ? — and me just in the middle of 
all this mess ! ” 

^ He said was Mrs. Chaffen at 
home, and could he see her,’ ” replied 
Sam. He’s a waiting outside.” 

Mrs. Chalfen sat back on her heels, 
one hand resting on the bucket, the 
other grasping the wet scrubbing- 
brush, and her face the very picture 
of consternation as she stared at the 
boy. She had believed herself free for 
a full week to come. 

“ Is it IMr. Henley himself, Sam ? ” 
It ain’t Mr. Henley at all,” said 
Sam. It’s the gentleman what’s stay- 
ing at Mrs. Jinks’s.” 

‘‘ What the plague brings him here 
this morning of all others, when I’ve 
got the floor in a sop and not a chair 
to ask him to set down upon ! ” cried 
the woman, relieved of her great fear, 
• but vexed nevertheless to be interrupt- 
ed in her work, and believing the in- 
truder to be IMr. Cattacomb, come on 
one of his pastoral visits. “ Parsons 
be frightful bothers sometimes ! ” 

‘‘’Taint the Parson; it’s the t’other 
one,” said Sam Bull. 

Mrs. Chaffen rose from her knees, 
stepped gingerly across the wet floor, 
and took a peep through the window. 
There she saw iMr. Strar\ge in the cen- 
tre of a tribe of young Bulls, dividing 
among them a piece of lettered gin- 
gerbread. Sam, afraid of not coming 
in for his share of the letters, bolted 
out of the room. 

“Ask the gentleman if he’ll be 
pleased to step in, Sam, and to excuse 
the litter,” she called after the boy. 
“ I don’t mind him,” she mentally 
added, seizing upon a mop to mop the 
wet off the floor, and then letting down 
lier gown, “and he must want some- 
thing particular of me; but I’d not 
have cared to stand Cattakin’s preach- 
ing this busy morning.” 

Mr. Strange came in in his pleasant 
way, admiring every thing, from the 
room to the bucket, and assuring her 
be rather preferred wet floors to dr}^ 
ones. While she was reaching him a 
chair and dusting it with her damp 


apron, he held out his hand, pointing to 
where the cuts had been. 

“ Look here, Mrs. Chaffen. I have 
been thinking of coming to you this 
day or two past, but fancied I might 
see you in Paradise Bow, for Pd rath- 
er have your opinion than a doctor’s at 
any time. The hand has healed you 
see.” 

“ Yes, sir ; it looks beautiful.” 

“ But I am not sure that it has 
healed properl}^, though it may look 
‘ beautiful,’ ” he rejoined. “ Feel this 
middle cut. Here just on the seam.” 

Mrs. Chaffen rubbed her fingers on 
the same check apron, and then passed 
them gently over the place he spoke of. 

“ WTiat do you feel ? ” he asked. 

“ W^ell, sir, it feels a little hard, and 
there seems to be a kind of knot,” she 
said, still examining the place. 

Precisely so. There’s a stiffness 
about it that I don’t altogether like, 
and now and then a kind of prickly 
sensation. What I have been fancying 
is that a bit of glass may possibly be 
in it still.” 

But Mrs. Chaffen did not think so. 
In her professional capacity she talked 
nearly as learnedly as a doctor could 
have talked, though not using quite the 
same words. Her opinion was that if 
glass had remained in the hand it 
would not have healed ; and she be- 
lieved that Mr. Strange had only to let 
it alone and have a little patience, and 
the symptoms he spoke of would go 
away. 

It is not at all improbable that this 
opinion was Mr. Strange’s own; but 
he thanked her and said he would abide 
by her advice, and gave her a little 
more gentle flattery. Then he sat 
down in the chair she had dusted, as 
if he meant to remain for the day, in 
spite of the disorder of aftairs and the 
damp floor, and entered on a course of 
indiscriminate gossip. Mrs. Chaffen 
liked to get on quickly with her work, 
but she liked gossip better: no matter 
how busy she might be, a dish of that 
never came amiss; and she put her 
back against another chair and folded 
her hands in her apron, and gossiped , 
back again. 

Ill a smooth and natural manner, ap- 


BAFFLED. 


215 


parently without intent, the conversa- 
tion presently turned upon the gentle- 
man- (or ghost) Mrs. Chaffen had seen 
at the Maze, It was a theme she had 
not tired of yet. 

Xow you come to talk of that/^ 
cried the detective, do you know 
what idea has occurred to me upon the 
point, Mrs. Chaffen ? I think the gen- 
tleman 3^ou saw may have been Sir 
Karl Andinnian.’^ 

Kurse Chaffen, contrary to her usual 
habit, did not immediately replj', but 
seemed to fall into thought. 

“ Was it Sir Karl ? 

Well now that’s a odd thing ! ” she 
broke forth at last. “ Miss Blake asked 
me the ver}" same question, sir — Was 
it Sir Karl Andinnian? ” 

Oh, did she. When ? 

When we had been talking of the 
thing inj-our rooms, sir — that time that 
I had been a dressing of your hand. In 
going down stairs, some body pulled me, 
all mysterious like, into the Keverend 
Cattakiii’s parlor: I found it was Miss 
Blake, and she began asking me what 
the gentleman looked like and whether 
it was not Sir Karl ? ” 

“And was it Sir Karl?” 

“Being took by surprise in that 
way,” went on Mrs. Chaffen, disregard- 
ing the question, “ I answered Miss 
Blake that I had not had enough time 
to notice the gentleman and could not 
say whether he was like Sir Karl or 
not. Kot having reflected upon it then, 
I spoke promiscuous, you see sir, on the 
spur of the moment.” 

“And was it Sir Karl?” repeated 
Mr. Strange. “ Kow that you have 
had time to reflect upon it, is that the 
conclusion you come to ? 

“Ko, sir, just the opposite. A min- 
ute or two afterwards, if I’d only wait- 
ed, I could have told JMiss Iffake that 
it was not Sir Karl. I couldn’t saj" 
who it was, but ’twas not him.” 

This assertion was so contrary to the 
theory Mr. Strange had been privately 
establishing that it took him somewliat 
by surprise. 

“ Why are you enabled to sa\^ surely 
it was not Sir Karl ? ” he questioned, 
laughing lightly, as if the matter 
amused him. 


“ Because, sir, the gentleman was 
taller than Sir Karl. And, when I * 
came to think of it, I distinctly saw’ 
that he had short hair, either lightish 
or grayish : Sir Karl’s hair is a beauti- 
ful wavy brown, and he w'ears it rather 

... 

“ Tw’ilight is very deceptive,” re- 
marked Mr. Strange. 

“No doubt of that, sir: but there 
was enough light coming in through 
the passage window’s for me to see w’hat 
I have said. I am quite positive it 
was not Sir Karl Andinnian.” 

“Would you swear it was not?” 

“ No, sir, I’d not sw’ear it : swear- 
ing’.s a ticklish thing: but I'm none the 
less sure. ]\[r. Strange, it was not Sir 
Karl yb?’ cevtain^'^ she added impress- 
ively. “ The gentleman w'as taller 
than Sir Karl and had a bigger kind 
of figure, broader shoulders like, and it 
rather struck me at the time that he 
limped in his walk. That I couldn’t 
hold to however.” 

“Just the description of w^hat Salter 
would most likel}" be now,” mused the 
detective, his doubts veering about un- 
comfortably. “ He w’ould have a limp, 
or something worse, after that escapade 
out of the railway carriage.” 

“ Well, if you are so sure about it, 
Mrs. Chaffen, I suppose it could not 
have been Sir Karl.” 

“ I can trust my sight, sir, and I am 
sure. What ever could have give rise 
to the thought that it was Sir Karl ? ” 
continued she, after a moment’s pause. 

“ Why, you must know, Mrs. Chaf- 
fen, that Sir Karl Andinnian is the 
only man in Foxw’ood wdio is likely to 
put on evening dress as a rule. And 
being a neighbor of Mrs. Grey’s and 
her landlord, it w’as not so very im- 
probable he should have called in, don’t 
you see ? ” 

Thus enlightened, Mrs. Chaffen no 
longer w’ondered how’ the surmise had 
arisen. She reiterated the assertion 
that it w^as not Sir Karl ; and Mr. 
Strange, gliding into the important 
question of soda for cleaning boards, 
versus soap, took an affable leave. 

Thet-e he was, walking back again, 
his thoughts almost as uncertain as the 
wind. Was IMiss Blake’s theory right. 


216 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


or was this woman’s ? If the latter, 
and the man was in truth sucli as she 
described him, taller and broader than 
Sir Karl, wliy then he conld, after all, 
have staked his life upon the ^laze be- 
in^ Salter’s place of concealment. He 
w.)uld try and put the matter to rest 
with all speed, one way or the other. 
lVrha[)s. however, that resolution was 
more easy to make than to carry out. 

It was ihe day following this. The 
IMaze. in all its ordinary quiet ness, was 
lying at rest under the midday sun. 
That is, as regards outward and visible 
rest; of inward rest, the rest that dif- 
fuses peace in the heart, there was but 
little. 

The baby was lying in its cot. Its 
mother, who had been hushing it to 
sleep, prepared to change her mornings 
wrapper for the gown she would wear 
during the day. A bouquet of fresh-cut 
tlowers lay on the dressing table, and 
the window stood open to the free, 
fresh air. Ann Hopley was in the 
scullery below, peeling the potatoes for 
dinner, and the old man servant was 
out somewhere over his work. As the 
woman threw the last potato into the 
pan, there came a gentle ring at the 
gate bell. She turned around and 
looked at the clock in the kitchen. 

Who’s that I wonder? It’s too 
early for the bread. Any \^y, you’ll 
wait till I’ve got my potatoes on, who- 
ever you may be,” concluded she, ad- 
dressing the unknown intruder. 

Tlie saucepan on, she went forth. 
At the gate stood an inoffensive look- 
ing young man with a large letter or 
folded parchment in his hand. 

AVdiat do you want ? ” asked Ann 
Hople^^ 

Is this the Maze ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

‘‘ Hoes a lady named Grey live 
here ? ” 

‘‘ Yes.” 

Then I’ve got to leave this for her, 
please.” 

dViking the key from her pocket, 
Ann Hopley unsuspiciously opened the 
gate, ami held forth her hand to take 
the parchment. Instead of giving itto 
her, the man pushed past, inside ; and. 


to Ann Hopley’s horror, IMr. Strange 
and a policeman suddenly appeared, 
and followed him. She would* have 
closed the gate upon them, and made a 
kind of insane effort to do so : but one 
woman cannot effect much agaiiist 
three determined men. 

“ You can shut it now,” said ^Mr. 
Strange, when they were inside. 

Don’t be alarmed, my good woman : 
we have no wish to harm you.” 

“ What do you want? — and why do 
you force yourselves in, in this way ? ” 
she inquired, frightened nearly to 
death. 

‘‘I am a detective officer belonging 
to the London police force,” said IMr. 
Strange, introducing himself in his 
true character. I bring with me a 
warrant to search the house called the 
Maze and its out-door premises — tak- 
ing the folded paper from the man’s 
hand. Would 3mu like me to read it 
to you before I go on ? ” 

“ Search them for what ? ” asked 
Ann Hoplejq feeling angry with her- 
self for her white face. “ L don’t want 
to hear anything read. Do you think 
we have got stolen goods here ? — I’m 
sure you are enough to scare a bo(i3'’s 
senses away, bursting in like this ! ” 

Mr. Strange slightly laughed. 

We are not looking for stolen 
goods,” he said. 

“What for then?” resumed the 
woman, striving to be calm. 

“ For some one whom I believe is 
concealed here.” 

“ Some one concealed liere ? Is it 
me ? — or m3" mistress ? — or my old 
husband ? ” 

“ No.” 

“ Then you won’t find an3d.')ody 
else,” she returned with an air of re- 
lief. There’s no soul in the place 
but us three, and that I’ll swear: ex- 
cept Mrs. Grey’s baby. And we had 
good characters, sir, I can tell you, 
both me and m3" husband, before Mrs. 
Grey engaged us. Would we harbor 
loose characters here, do 3"ou sup- 
pose ? ” 

It was so m\ich waste of words. 
Mr. Strange went without further par- 
\ey into the intricacies of the Maze, 


BAFFLED. 


217 


calling to the policeman to follow him, 
and bidding the other — who was a 
local policeman also in plain clothes — 
remain near the gate and guard it 
against anj^body’s attempted egress. 
All this while the gate had been open. 
Ann Hoploy’ locked it with trembling 
fingers, and then followed the men 
through the maze, shrieking out words 
'of remonstrance at the top of her 
voice. Had there been ten felons con- 
cealed within, she made enough noise 
to warn them all. 

For goodness sake, woman, don’t 
make that uproar!” cried the detec- 
tive. “We are not going to murder 
you,” 

The terrified face of Mrs. Grey ap- 
peared at the window. Old Hopley 
was gazing through the chink of the 
door of the tool-house, which he was 
about to clean out. The detective 
heeded nothing. He went straight to 
the house door, and entered it. 

“ Wait here at the open door, and 
keep a sharp look round inside and 
out,” were his orders to the policeman. 
“ If I want you, Pll call.” 

But Ann Hopley darted before Mr. 
Strange to impede his progress — she 
was greatly agitated — and seized hold 
of his arm. 

“ Don’t go in,” she cried imploring- 
ly ; “ don’t go in, for the love of heav- 
en ! My poor mistress is but just out 
of her confinement and the fever that 
followed it, and the fright will be 
enough to kill her. I swear to you 
that what I have said is true. There’s 
nobody on these premises but those 
I’ve named : my mistress and us two 
servants, me and Hopley. It canH be 
one of us you want 1 ” 

“ My good woman, I have said that 
it is not. But, if it be as you say — 
that there’s no one else, no one conceal- 
ed here — why object to my search- 
ing ? ” 

“ For her sake,” reiterated the agitat- 
ed woman ; “for the poor lady’s sake.” 

“ I must search : understand that,” 
said Mr. Strange. ‘^Better let me do 
it quietly.” 

As if becoming impressed with this 
fact and that it was useless to contend 


further, Ann Hopley suddenly took her 
hands off the detective, leaving him at 
liberty to go where he would : and, 
passing through the kitchen, began to 
attend to her saucepan of potatoes. 

Armed with his full power, both of 
law and of will, Mr. Strange began 
his search. The warrant had not been 
obtained from Sir Karl but from a 
magistrate at Basham : it might be 
that he did not feel sufficiently assured 
of Sir Karl’s good faith : therefore the 
Maze was not averted beforehand. 

It was not a large house ; the rooms 
were soon looked into, and nothing sus- 
picious was to be seen. Three beds 
were made up in three different cham- 
bers : the one in Mrs. Grey’s room and 
two others. Was one of these occu- 
pied by Salter ? The detective could 
not answer the doubt. They w’ere 
plain beds in plain rooms, and it might 
be that the two servants did not sleep 
together. Knocking at the door, he 
entered Mrs. Grey’s chamber: the 
bab}" slept in its cot ; she stood at the 
glass in her dressing gown, lier golden 
hair hanging down lier back. 

“ I beg your pardon, madam ; I beg 
your pardon a thousand times,” said 
the detective, with deprecation, as he 
removed his hat. “ The law some- 
times obliges us to do disagreeable 
things, and w^^ servants -of it, cannot 
help ourselves.” 

“At least tell me the meaning of all 
this,” she said with ashj^ face and 
trembling lips. And he explained 
that he was searching the house with 
the authority of a search warrant. 

“ But what is it you want ? Who 
is it ? ” 

Again he explained to her that they 
were looking after an escaped fugitive, 
who, it was suspected, might have tak- 
en refuge in the Maze. 

“ I assure you, sir,” she said, her 
gentle manner earnest, her words ap- 
pareiitlj" truthful, “ that no person 
whatever, man or woman, has been in 
the Maze since I have inhabited it, 
save myself and my two servants.” 

“Nevertheless, Madam, vve have in- 
formation that some one else has been 
seen here.” 


218 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


Then it has been concealed from 
me/’ siie rejoined. “Will 3^11 not at 
least inform me who it is 3^11 are 
searching for? In confidence if 3^11 
prefer: I promise to respect it.” 

“ It is an escaped criminal named 
Salter,” replied the officer, knowing 
that she would hear it from Sir Karl 
Andinnian, and wishing to be as civil 
to her as he could. 

“Salter!” returned jMrs. Grey, 
showing the surprise tliat perhaps 
she did not feel. “ Salter I Wh3^ 
Salter — at least if it is Salter — is the 
man who lives opposite these outer 
gates, and goes by the name of Smith. 
Salter has never been concealed here.” 

The very assertion made b3^ Sir Karl 
Andinnian. jMr. Strange took a mo- 
ment to satisfy his keen sight that 
there was no otlier ingress to this room, 
save by the door, and no piece of fur- 
niture large enough to conceal a man 
in, and was then about to bow himself 
out. But she spoke again. 

“ On my sacred word of honor, sir, 
I tell 3mu the truth. Sir Karl Andin- 
nian — my landlord — has been suspect- 
ing that his agent. Smith, might turn 
out to be Salter : I suspected the same.” 

“ But that man is not Salter, mad- 
am. Does not bear an3'’ resemblance 
to him. It was a misapprehension of 
Sir Karl’s.” 

“ And — do I understand that 3mu 
are still looking for him here ? — in the 
Maze ? I do not understand.” 

“Not looking for that man Smith, 
madam, but for the real Salter. We 
have reason to think lie is concealed 
here.” 

“ Then, sir, allow me to affirm to you 
in all solemnit3^, that Salter is not, and 
never lias been concealed here,” she 
said with dignity. “Such a thing 
would be impossible without my 
knowledge.” 

He did not care to prolong the con- 
versation. He had his work to do, and 
no words from her or aii3^ one else 
would deter him from it. As he was 
quitting the room, he suddenly turned 
to ask a question. 

“ I beg your pardon madam. Have 
you any objections to tell me whether 


your two servants, Hople3^ and his wife, 
occupy the same room and bed ? ” 

For a moment or two she gazed at 
him in silence, possibly in surprise at 
the question, and then gave her answer 
almost indifferentl V. 

“ Not in general I believe. Hopley’s 
cough is apt to be troublesome at night, 
and it disturbs his wife. But I realh^ 
do not know much about their arrange- 
ments : they make them without troub- 
ling me.” 

The detective proceeded on his mis- 
sion. He soon discovered the conceal- 
ed door in the evening sitting-room, 
and passed into the passage be3^ond it. 
Ah, if Salter or any other crinimal, 
were in hiding within its dark recess- 
es, there would be little chance for him 
now. The passage, ver3^ close and nar- 
row, had no egress on either side ; it 
ended in a flight of nearl3^ perpendic- 
ular stairs. Groping his way down, he 
found himself in a vault, or under- 
ground room. Mr. Strange was pro- 
vided with matches, and lighted one. 
It was a bare place, the brick walls 
dripping moisture, the floor paved with 
stone. Here he discovered another nar- 
row passage that led straight along, jt 
was hard to say bow far, and he had 
need to strike more than one match 
before he had traversed it. It ended 
in a flight of stairs : wliich he ascend- 
ed, and — found himself in a summer 
house at the extreme boundaiy of the 
garden. 

So far the search had not realized 
his expectations. On the contrary, it 
was so unsatisfactory as to be puzzling 
to his experienced mind. There had 
been no tracks or traces of Philip Sal- 
ter ; no indication that the [>assages 
were #^’er used ; and the doors had 
opened at his touch, unsecured by bolt 
or bar. 

Taking a look round him while he 
strove to solve more than one problem, 
the detective slowlv advanced along 
the garden. All the garden ground sur- 
rounding the house, it must be under- 
stood, whether useful or ornamental, 
was luiihln the circle of the maze of trees. 
Turning a corner, after passing the 
fruit trees and vegetables, he came in 


BAFFLED. 


219 


view of the lawn and of the green- 
house; also of Ann Ho}Dley, who was 
plucking some thyme from the herb 
bed. 

“ Have you found what you were 
looking for^ sir ? ’’ she asked, every 
appearance of animosity gone, as she 
raised her head to put the question 
when he came near.” 

‘‘ ISTot 3 ^et.’^ 

Well, sir, I hope you are satisfied. 
You may take my word for it that you 
never will.” 

‘‘Think not?” he carelessly said, 
looking about him. 

“Any vvay, I am not sorry that you 
have been through them subterranean 
places underground,” she resumed. 
“ My mistress and 1 have never ven- 
tured to look what was in them, and 
she has not much liked the thought of 
their being there. We got Hopley to 
go down one day, but his shoulders 
stuck in a narrow part, and he had to 
force ’em back and come up again.” 

The detective stepped into the green- 
house, and stood a moment admiring 
the choice flowers and some purple 
grapes ripening above. Ann Hopley 
had gathered her herbs when he came 
out, and. stood with them in her hand. 

“ If you’d like to take a few flowers, 
sir, I’m sure Mrs. Grey would not wish 
to object. Or a bunch of grapes. 
There’s some ripe.” 

“ Thank you, not now.” 

He pulled open the tool house door, 
onl}" partly closed, and looked in on 
Hopley. The old man was cleaning it 
out. Sweeping the floor with a be- 
som, and raising a cloud of dust enough 
to choke a dozen throats, he was hiss- 
ing and fizzing over his work, just as 
some grooms hiss when they rub down 
a horse. Hopley looked very decrepid 
to-day : his swollen knees were bent 
and tottering; his humped-back was 
all conspicuous as he stood ; while his 
throat was enveloped in some folds of 
an old scarlet comforter. 

“ ]Mr. Hoplej", I think,” said the de- 
tective politely. “ Will you please tell 
me the name of the gentleman that’s 
staying here ? ” 

But Hopley, bent nearly double over 


his work, took no notice whatever; he 
kept on his hissing and fizzing, his 
back to the detective, and scattering 
his clouds of dust. 

“ If jmu want him to answer any 
questions, I shall have to bawl them 
out to him,” cried Ann Hopley, ad- 
vancing. “ He’s as deaf as a post and 
can make out no voice but mine : espe- 
cially when he has one of his sore 
throats upon him, as he has to-day. 
For my part I think these bad throats 
have to do with the deafness.” 

Stepping into the midst of the dust, 
she shook her husband by the arm 
somewhat roughly, and he raised his 
head with a start. 

“ Here, Hopley, just listen a minute,” 
she screamed at tlie top of her voice. 
“ This gentleman is asking you to tell 
him the name of the gentleman who is 
staying here — that’s it, is it not, sir?’* 
— and Mr. Strange nodded acqiiies- 
cence. “ The name, Hopley, the 
name.” 

“I’ve never seed no lady here but 
the missis,” said old Hopley at length 
in his imperfect articulation caused by 
the loss of his teeth, as he touched his 
broad brimmed hat respectfully to the 
stranger, and looked up, leaning on 
the besom. 

“ Not a lad}", Hopley ; a gentleman,” 
bawled Ann. 

“ I’ve see’d no gentleman here at 
all.” 

“ He is rather stupid in his intel- 
lect, is he not?” cried the age^it to the 
wife. 

She resented the imputation. “Not 
at all, sir; no more than deaf people 
always seem to be.” 

“What gentleman be it?” asked 
Hopley. “ Smith the agent comes for 
the rent at quarter-day, and Sir Karl 
Andinnian came over one morning 
about the well.” 

“ Neither of those,” roared out Mr. 
Strange. “ The gentleman that’s hiding 
here.” 

“ Not them, Hopley,” called Ann in 
his ear. “ The gentleman that’s hiding 
here, he says.” 

“ Hiding where ? ” asked Hopley. 
“ In them underground places ? I 


220 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


never knowed anybody was hiding in 
^em.” 

Ask him if he^ll swear that no 
man whatever is in hiding here, Mrs. 
Hopley.’’ 

“ The gentleman says will you swear 
that no man is in hiding here at the 
Maze ? ” repeated Ann, somewhat im- 
proving upon the question. 

ril swear that there’s neither man 
nor woman in the place, sir, to my 
knowledge, hiding or not hiding, but 
us two and the missis,” was the an- 
swer, given directly to Mr. Strange, 
and as emphatically as his utterly 
toothless jaws allow’ed. “ I swear it 
to my God.” 

‘‘And you may trust him, sir,” said 
Ann quietly. “ I don’t believe he ever 
told a lie in his life*: much less took an 
oath to one. Hopley’s honest and 
straightforward as the day, though he 
is a martyr to rheumatism.” 

Mr. Strange nodded his head to the 
man and left him to his sweeping. 
The work and the hissing began again 
before he was out of hearing. In both 
the tool-house and the green-house no 
possible chance was afforded of con- 
cealment — to ascertain which had 
doubtless been the chief motive for the 
detective’s invasion of them. 

“ I don’t believe the old man knows 
about it,” ran his thoughts ; “ but the 
Woman doesP 

Ann Hopley carried her herbs indoors, 
and began picking tiiem. Mr. Strange, 
calling the policeman to his aid, made 
as thorough a search out of doors as the 
nature of the premises and the puzzling 
maze of trees allowed. There was a 
closed-in passage of communication 
through the labyrinth, between the 
back of the house and the outer circle : 
but it was built solely with a view to 
convenience, as the detective satisfied 
himself — such as the bringing in of 
coals or beer to the Maze, or, as Ann 
Hopley expressed it, the carrjdng of a 
coffin out of it — and afforded no facil- 
it}" for concealment. Borrowing a can- 
dle of her, Mr. Strange betook himself 
once more to the secret passages, both 
policemen with him, to institute a more 
minute and thorough examination. 


There ensued no result. And Mr. 
Detective Strange withdrew his men 
and finallj’’ departed himself ; one mor- 
tifying word beating its unsatisfactory 
refrain on his brain, “ Baffled.” 


CHAPTER XXXIL 

AT SCOTLAND YARD. 

Once more on his weary way to 
London went Karl Andinnian, on the 
same weary business that he had gone 
before ; but this time he was proceed- 
ing direct to the place he had hitherto 
shunned — Scotland Yard. 

The extreme step taken by the de- 
tective, Tatt6n, in searching the IMaze, 
had alarmed Karl be^’ond measure. 
True, the unfortunate fugitive, hiding 
there, had managed to elude detection : 
but who could say that he would be 
able to do so another time, or how often 
these men of the law might choose to 
go in ? The very fact of their not be- 
ing actually in search of Sir Adam, 
but of a totally different individual, 
made it seem all the more unbearably 
cruel. 

In Mrs. Grey’s dire distress and 
perplexity, she had sent that same night 
for Karl — and he heard the whole that 
had taken place. Adam confessed he 
did not know what was to be done, or 
how avert the fate — recapture — that 
seemed closely impending; and Rose 
almost fell on her knees before Karl, 
imploring him with tears to try and 
save her husband from the danger. 
Karl took his remorse home with him : 
remorse arising from the knowledge 
that he had brought all this about, he, 
himself, in his insane inquiries after 
Salter : and, after much anxious con- 
sideration, he resolved to go on the 
morrow, to Scotland Yard. 

It was past noon when he reached 
his destination. After he had stated 
confidentially the nature of his busi- 
ness — that it was connected with the 
search after Philip Salter then being 
carried on at Fox wood by Detective 
Tatton — he was told that it was Mr. 
Superintendent Game whom he must 


AT SCOTLAND YARD 


221 


see upon the point : but that at pres- 
ent the superintendent was enii^aged. 
Kajl had to wait.: and was kept waiting 
a considerable time. 

Could Karl’s eyes have penetrated 
through two walls and a room, he 
might liave been greatl}" astonished to 
see the person with whom the superin- 
tendent was occupied. It was no other 
than Tat ton himself. For tlie detec- 
tive, after taking a night to think over 
matters, just as Karl had done, had 
come to the determination of placing 
the liistory of his doings at Foxwood 
before his superiors, and to leave with 
them the decision whether he should 
go on with his search, or abandon it. 
Accordingly, he also had proceeded to 
London that morning, but by an ear- 
lier train : and he was novv closeted 
with Mr. Superintendent Game — who 
had given him his original instructions, 
and had, special Ij", the Salter affair in 
hand — and was laying before him a suc- 
cinct narrative of facts, his various sus- 
picions and his bafffings. Before the 
interview was over, the superintendent 
was as well acquainted with the Maze, 
its rumors and its mysteries, together 
with sundry other items of Foxwood 
gossip, as Tatton himself could be. 

“ A gentleman waiting — had been 
waiting sometime — to see Mr. Game on 
the Foxwood business,” was the inter- 
ruption that was first brought to them : 
and both Mr. Game and Tatton felt 
somewhat surprised thereby. Who 
is the gentleman” came back the nat- 
ural question in return. Sir Karl 
Andinnian.” A moment’s pause to re- 
volve matters, and then the superin- 
tendent issued his fiat — “ See him in 
five minutes.’^ 

The five minutes were occupied with 
Tatton ; but he was safely away ere 
they had expired, carrying liis orders 
to wait; and Sir Karl Andinnian was 
shown in. The shperintendent and 
the visitor met for the first time, and 
glanced at each other with some curi- 
osity. The officer saw in the brother 
of the noted and unfortunate criminal, 
a pale, refined, and essentiallj" gentle- 
manly man, with a sad but attractive 
face that seemed to tell of sorrow; the 


other saw a spare man of middle height, 
who in age might have been his fatlier, 
and whose speech and manners betok- 
ened cultivation as good as his own. 

Taking the seat offered him, Karl 
entered at once upon his business. 
Explaining shortly and truthfully the 
unfortunate suspicion on his own part, 
that had led to his inquiries about 
Salter of Mr. Burtenshaw, and to the 
subsequent despatch of Tatton to Fox- 
wood. He concealed nothing ; not 
even the sdight foundation for those 
suspicions — merely the having seen 
the name of Philip Salter in a pocket- 
book that was in the pd^session of 
Philip Smith : and related his recent 
explanation with Smith ; when he 
learnt that he and Salter were cousins. 
Karl told it all : and the officer saw, 
and believed, that he was telling it 
truly. Karl then went on to relate 
how he had himself sought an inter- 
view with Tatton on his last return 
from London — whither he had gone to 
try and convince Mr. Burtenshaw that 
it was not Salter ; that he had learnt 
from Tatton then that liis suspicions 
were directed to a house called the 
Maze, as the place of Salter’s conceal- 
ment, and that he. Sir Karl, liad as- 
sured Tatton on his word of honor as 
a gentleman that it was altogether a 
mistaken assumption, for that Salter 
was not at the Maze, and never had 
been there. He had believed that 
Tatton was convinced by what he said : 
instead of which, he had taken the ex- 
treme and, under the circumstances, 
most unjustifiable step of proceeding 
to the house with a search warrant and 
two policemen, to the terror of the 
lady inhabiting it, Mrs. Grej^, and her 
two old servants. It was to report this 
to Tatton’s superiors at head-quarters 
that he liad novv come up from Fox- 
wood, Sir Karl added ; not, he emphat- 
ically said, to complain of Tatton or to 
get him reprimanded, for no doubt the 
man, in doing what he had done, had 
believed it was but his duty: but to 
request that instructions might be 
given him to leave Mrs. Grey in tran- 
quillity for the future. She, feeling 
much outraged and insulted by the 


222 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


suspicion that she could have a com- 
mon criminal like Philip Salter con- 
cealed in her home, had sent for him, 
Sir Karl, as her landlord, to beg him 
to protect her if in his power, and to 
secure her from further molestation. 

Mr. Superintendent Game had lis- 
tened to Sir Karl’s narrative as atten- 
tively and with as much apparent in- 
terest as though it comprised informa- 
tion that he had never in all his life 
heard of : whereas, in point of fact, 
Tatton had just been going over the 
same facts with him, or nearly the 
same. He admitted to Sir Karl that 
it no doubt did seem to Mrs. Grey an 
unjustifiable step, an unaccountable in- 
trusion ; if indeed Salter were not con- 
cealed there and she knew nothing of 
him. 

“I assure you, as I assured Tatton, 
that she does not,” spoke Karl, with 
alingst painful earnestness. ‘‘There is 
not an iota of foundation for supposing 
Salter ever was at Foxwood ; certainly 
he was never at the Maze.” 

“ Tatton is an experienced officer. 
Sir Karl. You may depend upon it 
that he had good reasons for what he 
did.” 

“ That he fancied he had : I admit 
that. But they were utterly ground- 
less. I should have thought that had 
any one lady, above another, been ex- 
empt from suspicion of an}^ kind, it 
was Mrs. Grey. She lives a perfectly 
retired life at the Maze during her 
husband’s absence, giving offence to 
none. To suppose she would allow the 
fugitive Salter, a man whom she never 
knew or saw, to be concealed within 
her domains is worse than preposter- 
ous.” 

“ it is hazardous to answer so far for 
any one. Sir Karl,” was the rejoinder 
— and Karl thought he detected a faint 
smile on the speaker’s lips. “ Especial- 
ly for a woman. The best of them 
have their tricks and turns.” 

“ I can answer for Mrs. GreyT” 

Mr. Superintendent Game, whose 
elbow as he faced Sir Karl was leaning 
on a desk-table, took it off and fell to 
pushing together some papers, as 
though in abstraction. He was no 
doubt taking time to fit in some por- 


tions of Karl’s narrative with the in- 
formation possessed by himself Karl 
w\aited a minute and ^hen w^mt on. 

“ I am sure that this lady would be 
willing to make a solemn affidavit that 
she knows nothing of Salter; and that 
he is not, and never has been, conceal- 
ed there; if by so doing it would se- 
cure her exemption from intrusion for 
the future.” 

“ Yes, no doubt,” said the officer 
somewhat absentl3\ “ Sir Karl An- 
dinnian,” he added, turning briskly to 
face him again after another pause, “ I 
assume that your own part in this busi- 
ness w’as confined to the sole fact of 
jmur entering on the misapprehension 
of taking your agent Smith to be 
Salter.” 

“ That’s all. But do you not see 
how I feel mj^self to be compromised : 
since it was ray unfortunate endeavor 
to set the doubt at rest, by appljdng to 
Burtenshaw, that has originated all 
the mischief and brought the insult 
on Mrs. Grey ? ” 

‘‘ Of course. But for that step of 
jmurs we should have heard nothing 
of Salter in connection with Fox- 
wood.” 

Karl maintained a calm exterior : 
but he could have ground his teeth as 
he listened. It w^as too true. 

“Then, wdth that one exception. Sir 
Karl, I arn right in assuming that you 
personally hold no other part or inter- 
est in this affair, as regards Salter ? ” 

“As regards Salter? None what- 
ever.” 

“ Well now,” resumed the superin- 
tendent, in a confidential kind of tone, 
“ w^e can talk at our ease for a minute. 
Does it not strike ^mu. Sir Karl, as an 
impartial and impassioned looker-on, 
that there is something rather curious 
in the affair, taking one thing with 
another ? ” 

“ I fail to catch your meaning, sir,” 
replied Karl, gazing at the superin- 
tendent. “ I confess no such idea has 
occurred to me. Curious in what 
w'aj^ ? ” 

“ We shall come to that. Philip 
Smith has been your agent about six 
months, I believe.” 

“About that.” 


AT SCOTLAND YARD. 


223 


Whence did you have him ? Where 
did he live before ? ’’ 

I really do wot know. My mother, 
the late Mrs. Andinnian, who was occu- 
pying Foxwood Court during ray ab- 
sence abroad, engaged him. She be- 
came ill herself, was unable to attend 
to anything, and deemed it well to 
employ some one to look after my in- 
terest.’’ 

Report runs in Foxwood — all kinds 
of gossip have come up to me from 
the place — that Smith is only your 
honorary agent. Sir Karl ; that he 
gives it out he is an old friend of the 
Andinnian family.” 

can assure you that Smith is my 
paid agent. He has a house to live in 
and takes his salarj^ quarterly.” 

The- house is exactly opposite the 
Maze gates.” 

“ Yes,” said Sir Karl, beginning to 
feel somewhat uncomfortable at the 
drifc the conversation appeared to be 
taking. 

Is there any truth in the state- 
ment that your family knew him in 
earlier days? You will see in a min- 
ute, Sir Karl, why I ask you all this. 
I conclude there is not.” 

I understood my mother to implj" in 
her last illness that she had known some- 
thing of him : but I was not sure that 
I caught her meaning correctly, and 
she was too ill for me to press the 
question. I had never heard of any 
Smith myself, and the chances were 
that I misunderstood her. He makes 
himself useful about the estate, and 
that is all I have to look to.” 

“ Report says also — pardon me for 
recurring to it, Sir Karl — that he 
makes himself a very easy kind of 
agent ; seems to do as he likes, work 
or play, and spends most of his time 
smoking in his front garden, exchang- 
ing salutations with the passers-by 
and watching his neighbor’s opposite 
gate.” 

Had it been to save his life, Karl 
Andinnian could not have helped the 
change that passed over his counte- 
nance. What was coming ? He strove 
to be cool and careless, poor fellow, and 
smiled frankly. 


“I fancy he is rather idle — and 
given to smoke too much. But he 
does well what he has to do for me, for 
all that. Mine is not a large estate, 
as you may be aware, and Sir Joseph 
left it in tirst-rate condition. There is 
very little work for an agent.” 

“ Well, now, I will ask you a last 
question. Sir Karl. Do you think 
Smith’s residence at Foxwood is in any 
way connected with the Maze ? ” 

“Connected with the Maze!” echoed 
Sir Karl, his face never betraying the 
uneasiness that his beating and ter- 
rified heart was beginning to feel all 
too keenly. 

“ That is, connected with its ten- 
ants.” 

In what way would it be pos- 
sible? ” 

Look here. Philip Smith presents 
himself at Foxwood Court about six 
months ago, soliciting the agency of 
your estates from Mrs. Andinnian — as 
there is little doubt he did so present 
himself to her and solicit. Now 
it was a very singular thing for him 
to do, considering that his previous 
life (as I happen to know) had in no 
way whatever qualified him for the 
situation. He knew no more of land 
or the duties of a land-agent than does 
this inkstand on my table. Why did 
he attempt to take such a place ?” 

“For the want of something else to 
do, probably,” replied Karl. “ He 
told me himself the other day that his 
cousin’s fall ruined him also, by caus- 
ing him to be turned from his situation. 
As to the duties he has to perform for 
me, a child might be at home in them 
in a week.” 

“ Granted. Let us go on. Mr. 
Smith’s installation at your place as 
agent was closely followed b}’ the oc- 
cupancy of the Maze, Mrs. Grey and 
her servants arriving as its tenants. 
Was it not so. Sir Karl ? ” 

“ I — I think it was,” assented Sir 
Karl, appearing to be recalling the past 
to his memory, and feeling himself in a 
bath of horror as he saw that the all- 
powerful man before him, powerful to 
know, to rule, and to act, was quite at 
home behind the scenes. 


224 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


‘‘Well, I cannot lielp thinking that 
tlie one may liave been connected witli 
the other ; that Smitli’s appearance at 
your place and the immediatel^^-follow- 
ing occupancy of the iMaze, may liave 
been, so to say, connecting links in the 
same cliain,"’ continued the superin- 
tendent. “ A doubt of it was floating 
in my mind before I had the honor of 
seeing you, Sir Karl : but I failed to 
detect any adequate cause ; there was 
none on the service. You have now 
supplied that, by telling me who Smith 
is — Salter’s relative.” 

“ Indeed I cannot understand 3^11,” 
said Karl, turning nevertheless from 
hot to cold. 

“The Maze is a place — wliat with its 
surrounding lab3-rinth of trees and its 
secret passages and outlets — unusually 
favorable for concealment. A proscrib- 
ed man might hide himself there for 
3>ars and 3’ears, and never be discover- 
ed unless suspicion were accidental 13" 
drawn on him. I think the chances 
are that Salter is there ; and that his 
cousin, Smith, is keeping guard over 
liim for his protection, while ostensibl3^ 
. fulfilling oid3" the duties of your agen- 
cy. They may have discovered in 
some way the desirable properties of 
the jMaze and lai<l their plans to come 
to it accord inglv.” 

It was so faithful a picture of wliat 
Smith was really doing at Foxwood — 
though the one he was watching over 
was a very different man from Salter — 
that Karl Andinnian almost thought 
some treacherous necromancy must have 
been at work. All he could do was, to 
speak forcibly against the view, and to 
declare that there could not be aiu’ 
foundation for it. 

“ Thatisonl3" your opinion against 
mine, Sir Karl, observed tlie superin- 
tendent courteously. “ You ma3^ rel3’' 
upon it, I tliink, that the fact of Sal- 
ter’s being there would be kept from 
3mu, of all people.” 

“ Do you forget the slur 3^11 would 
cast on Mrs. Grev?” 

“ As to that, Salter may be some rel- 
ative of hers. Even her brother. I 
remember it was said, at the time Ids 
case fell, that he had one sister. Of 


course she would not allow the fact of 
his concealment to transpire to vou.” 

How could Karl meet this ? Sitting 
there, in his perplexity and pain, he 
could not see a step before him. 

“ You have forgotten that Tatton 
has searched the Maze from roof to 
casement, IMr. Superintendent.” 

“Not at all. It tells nothing. 
There are no doubt hidden places that 
he did not penetrate to in that first 
search. At best, it was but a superfi- 
cial one.” 

That' “first” searcli. Was all 
security slipping from Karl’s feet, inch 
by inch ? 

“ Helieve me. you are wrong,” he 
said ; “3mur notion is an utterly mis- 
taken one. I assure 3^11 on my word 
of honor, as truly and solemnly as I 
shall ever testify to any fact in this 
world, that Salter is not within the 
Maze, that he never lias been. IMind 
3mu, sir, I knoio this. I go over occa- 
sionally to see poor Mrs. Grey in her 
loneliness, and am in a position to 
speak positively.” 

An unmistakable smile sat on tlie 
officer’s face now. “Ay,” he said, “ I 
have heard of your occasional nocturnal 
visits to her, Sir Karl. The voung 
lad3^ is said to be very attractive.” 

At the first moment. Sir Karl did 
not detect the covert meaning. It 
came to him with a rush of indigna- 
tion. The superintendent liad rarel3^ 
seen so hanght3^ a face. 

“ No offence. Sir Karl. ’Twas but 
a joke.” 

“ A joke I do not like, sir, I am a 
married man.” 

“ Es-ce qne cela empeche — ” the 
other was beginning : for the conclusion 
he had drawn on the score of Sir Karl's 
evening visits was a very decided one; 
but Karl put a peremptoiy stop to 
tlie subject. He deemed the superin- 
tendent most olfensivel3^ familiar and 
unwarrantably foolish ; and he resent- 
ed in his angry heart the implied as- 
])ersion on his brother’s wife, the true 
Lady Andinnian, than whom a more 
modest and innocent natured woman 
did not exist. And it never entered 
into the brain of Karl Andinnian to 


AT SCOTLAND YARD. 


225 


suspect that the same objectionable 
joke might have been taken up by peo- 
ple nearer home, even by his own wife. 

The interview came to an end. Karl 
went away, uncertain whether he had 
made sufficient impression, or not, to 
ensure the Maze against intrusion for 
the future. The superintendent did 
not say anything decisive, one way or 
the other, except that the matter must 
be left for his consideration. It might 
all have been well yet, all been well, but 
for this new complication, this suspi- 
cion rather, touching Smith and Salter 
jointly ! He, Karl, had given the great- 
est rise to this, he and no other, by 
stating that day that the men were 
cousins. He asked himself whether 
Heaven could be angry with him, for 
whatever step he took for good only 
seemed to lead to mischief and make 
affairs worse. One assurance he car- 
ried away with him: that the young 
lady at the. Maze might rest content : 
her peace personally should not be 
molested. But that was not saying the 
house should not be. 

After Sir Karl’s departure, the super- 
intendent’s bell rang and Tatton was 
recalled. A long conversation ensued. 
Matters known were weighed ; mat- 
ters suspected were looked at : and Mr. 
Tatton was finally bidden back to Fox- 
wood. 

.Karl had gone direct from Scotland 
Y^ard to take the train. A fast one, 
which speedily conveyed him home. He 
walked from the station and was enter- 
ing his own gate when Hewitt — who 
seemed to have been gossiping at the 
lodge with the gardener’s wife, but who 
had probably been lingering about in 
the hope of meeting his master — accost- 
ed him ; and they went up the walk 
together. 

am afraid something is amiss at 
the Maze, sir,” began the man, look- 
ing cautiously around and speaking 
in a low tone. 

“Something amiss at the Maze!” 
echoed Karl, seized with a terror that 
he did not attempt to conceal. 

“ Not that^ sir; not the worst, thank 
Heaven I Sir Adam has been taken 
ill.” 


“ Hush, Hewitt. No names. Ill 
in what way ? How do you know 


it?” 


“I had been to carry a note for my 
lady to old Miss Patchett, Sir Karl. 
Coming back, Ann Hopley overtook 
me ; she was walking from the station 
at a fine rate. Her master had been 
taken most alarmingly ill, she said ; 
and at any risk a doctor must be had 
to him. They did not dare to call in 
Mr. Moore, and she had been to the 
station then to telegraph for a stran- 
ger.” 

“ Telegraph where ? ” 

“ To Basham, sir. For Dr. Caven- 
dish.” 

Karl drew a deep breath. It seemed 
to be perplexity on perplexity : and he 
saw at once how much danger this step 
must involve. 

“ What is the matter with him, Hew- 
itt ? Do 3'ou know ? ” 

“ It was one of those fainting fits, 
sir. But they could not get him out 
of it, and for some time thought he was 
really dead. Mrs. Grey was nearly 
beside herself, Ann said, aild insisted 
on having a doctor. He is better now, 
sir,” added Hewitt, “ and I think 
there’s no need for you to go over un- 
less you particularly wish. I went 
strolling about the road, thinking I 
might hear or see something more, 
and when Ann Hopley came to the 
gate to answer a ring, .she told me he 
was quite himself again but still in 
bed. It was the pain made him 
faint.” 

“ I cannot think what the pain is,” 
murmured Karl. “Has the doctor 
been ? 

“ I don’t think he has yet, Sir 
Karl.” 

Karl lifted his hat to rub his aching 
brow. He saw his wife sitting under 
one of the trees, and went forward to 
join her. The wan, weary look on 
her face, growing more wan, more 
weary, daj’’ by day, struck on him 
particularly in the waning light of the 
afternoon. 

“ Do you do well to sit here, Lucy ? ” 
he asked, as he flung himself beside 
her, in utter weariness. 


14 


226 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


Why should I not ? ” 

“ I fancy the dew must be already 
rising.” 

It will not hurt me. And if it 
did — what would it matter ? ” 

The half reproaching, half indiffer- 
ent accent in which it was uttered, 
served to try him. He knew what 
the words implied — that existence 
had, through him, become a burden to 
her. His nerves were stung alreadj^ to 
tlieir utmost tension ; the trouble at 
his heart was pressing him sore. 

‘‘ Don’t yoUj by your reproaches, 
make matters worse for me, Lucy, to- 
day. God knows that I have well- 
nigh more than I can bear.” 

The strangely-painful tone, so full 
of unmistakable anguish aroused her 
kindly nature. She turned to him 
with a sigh. 

I wish I could make things better 
for both of us, Karl.” 

At least, you need not make them 
worse. What with one thing and 
another — ” 

Well ? ” she said, her voice soften- 
ed, as he paused. 

‘‘Nothing lies around me, Lucy, but 
perplexity and dread and pain. Look 
where I will, abroad or at home, there’s 
not as much as a single ray of light to 
cheer my spirit or the faintest reflection 
of it. You cannot wonder that I am 
sometimes tempted to wish I could 
leave the world behind me.” 

“ Have you had a pleasant day in 
town ? ” she asked, after a little while. 

“No, I have had an unsatisfactory 
and trying day in all waj^s. And I 
have come home to find more to try 
me : more dissatisfaction here^ more 
dread abroad, f Man is born to trouble 
as the sparks fly upwards.’ Some of 
us are destined to realize the truth in 
ourselves all too surely.” 

He looked at his watch, got up, and 
went in-doors without another word. 
Lucy gazed after him with yearning 
eyes ; eyes that seemed to have some 
of the perplexity he spoke of in their 
depths. There were moments when 
she failed to understand her husband’s 
moods. This was one. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

ILL-OMENED CHANCES. 

Karl Andinnian was bitterly 
tempted to ask of his own heart wheth- 
er he could had fallen under the dis- 
pleasure of Heaven, so persistentl}^ did 
every fresh movement of his, intended 
for good, turn into an increased bank of 
danger. Poor Sir Adam had more need 
to question it than he : for nothing but 
ill-omened chances seemed to pursue 
him. 

It is quite probable that when Ann 
Hopley and her flurried mistress de- 
cided to telegraph to Dr. Cavendish of 
Basham, they had thought and hoped 
that the doctor would come back by 
train, pass quietly on foot into the 
Maze, so pass out again, and the public 
be none the wiser. Dr. Cavendish, 
however, who was out when the tele- 
gram arrived, drove over later in his 
gig : and the gig with the groom in it 
paced before the Maze gate while the 
doc. tor was engaged with the patient 
inside. 

Just then there occurred one of those 
unhappy chances. Mr. Moore, the sur- 
geon, happened to walk by with his 
daughter Jemima, and saw the gig — 
which he knew well — waiting about. 
It took liim by surprise, as he had not 
heard that au}^ one was ill in the vicini- 
ty. The groom touched his hat and Mr. 
Moore went up to him. 

“Waiting for your master, James? 
Who is he with ? Who is ill ? ” 

“ It’s somebody down yonder, sir,” 
replied the man pointing back over 
his shoulder to indicate the Maze : but 
which action was not intelligible to the 
surgeon. 

“ Down where ? At the Court ? ” 

“No, sir. At the Maze.” 

“ At the Maze ! — Why who can be 
ill there ? ” cried Mr. Moore. 

“ I don’t know, sir. Master had a 
telegram, telling him to come.” 

At that moment Dr. Cavendish was 
seen to leave the gate and come towards 
his gig. Mr. Moore walked quietly 
forward to meet him, and the gig 
turned. 


ILL-OMENED CHANCES. 


227 


suppose 3^ou have been called to 
Mrs. Grey, doctor,” observed the sur- 
geon as he shook hands. Has she 
had a relapse? I wonder she did not 
send for rne. I have but just given up 
attending her.” 

“ Mrs. Grey ? ” returned the doctor. 

Oh no. It is a gentleman I have 
been called to see.” 

What gentleman ? ” asked the sur- 
geon in surprise. ‘‘ There^s no gentle- 
man at the Maze.” 

‘‘ One is there now. I don’t know 
who it is. Some friend or relation of 
the lady’s probably. Ah, Miss Jemima ! 
blooming as ever, I perceive, he broke 
off, as the young lady came slowly up. 

Could you not give some of us pale 
over- worked people a receipt for those 
roses on your cheeks ? ” 

‘‘ What is it that’s the matter with 
him ?” interposed the surgeon, leaving 
liis daughter to burst into her giggle. 

Dr. Cavendish put his arm within 
his friend’s, led him beyond the hear- 
ing of Miss Jemima, and said a few 
words in a low tone. 

Why, the case must be a grave 
one!” exclaimed Mr. Moore aloud. 

I think so. I don’t like the symp- 
toms at all. For some cause or other 
too, it seems he has not had advice till 
now; which makes it all the more dan- 
gerous.” 

“ By the way, doctor, as you are here, 
I wish jmu would spare five minutes to 
see a poor woman with me,” said Mr. 
Moore, passing from the other subject. 

It won’t hinder you much longer than 
that.” 

“ All right, Moore. Who is it ? ” 

It’s the widow of that poor fellow 
who died from sunstroke in the sum- 
mer — Whittle. The woman has been 
ailing ever since, and ver}^ grave dis- 
ease has now set in. I don’t believe I 
shall save her ; only yesterday it cross- 
ed my mind to wish you could see her. 
She lives just down below there ; in one 
of the cottages beyond Fox wood Court.” 

They got into the gig, the physician 
taking the reins and telling his groom 
to Jollow on foot. Miss Jemima was 
left to make her own wa}^ home. She 
was rather a pretty girl, with a high col- 


or and a quantity of light brown curls, 
and her manners were straight forwarcl 
and decisive. When the follies and 
vanities of youth shall have been 
chased away by some experience, al- 
lowing her naturally good sense to 
come to the top, she would in all prob- 
ability be as strong minded as her Aunt 
Diana, whom she alreadj" resembled in 
many ways. 

The autumn evening was drawing 
on, twilight had set in. Miss Jemima 
stood a moment deliberating which 
way she should take ; whether follow 
the gig and go home round by the 
Court, or the other way. Of the 
two the latter was the nearer and the 
least lonely; and she might — yes she 
might encounter Mr. Cattacombon his 
way to or from St. Jerome’s : clearly it 
was the one to choose. Turning briskly 
round when the decision was made, she 
nearly ran against Mr. Strange. That 
gentleman had just got back from Lon- 
don, sent down again by the authori- 
ties at Scotland Yard, and was on h'ls 
wa}" from the station. The jMaze had 
become an object of so much interest 
to him as to induce him to choose the 
long way round that w'ould cause him 
to pass its gates, rather than take the 
direct road to the village. And here 
was another of those unfortunate acci- 
dents apparently springing out of sole 
chance ! for the detective had seen the 
gig waiting, and halted in a bend of 
the hedge to watch the colloquy of the 
doctors. 

‘^Good gracious, is it you, Mr. 
Strange ! ” cried the young lady, be- 
ginning to giggle again. Why, 
Mother Jinks declared this afternoon 
you had gone out for the day 1 ” 

^^Did she ? Well, when I stroll out 
I never know when I may get back : 
the country is more tempting in au- 
tumn than at any other season. That 
was a doctor’s gig, was it not Miss. Je- 
mima ? ” 

Dr. Cavendish’s of Basham,” re- 
plied Miss Jemima, who enjoyed the 
honor of a tolerable intimacy with 
Mrs. Jinks’s lodger — as did most of. 
the other young ladies frequenting the 
parson’s rooms. 


228 


AVITHIX THE MAZE. 


He must liave come over to see 
some one. I wonder who is ill ? 

‘‘ Papa wondered too when he first 
saw the gig. It is somebody at the 
IMaze.’’ 

l)o you know who ? 

AVell. the^" seemed to talk as if it 
were a gentleman. I did not notice 
much.’’ 

A gentleman ? 

I think so. I am sure they said 
^ he ’ and * him.’ Perhaps Mrs. Grey’s 
husband has arrived. Whoever it is, 
lie must be very ill, for I heard papa 
say tlie case must be ‘ grave ; ’ and the 
doctor called it ‘ dangerous.’ They 
liave gone on together now to see poor 
Hannah Whittle.” 

Not since he had the case in hand 
had the detective’s ears been regaled 
with so palatable a disli. That Philip 
Salter had been taken ill with some mal- 
ady or another sufficiently serious to ne- 
cessitate the summoning of a doctor, 
lie fully believed. Miss Jemima re- 
sumed. 

“ 1 must sa}", considering that papa 
is the medical attendant there, that 
]\Irs. Grey might have had the good 
manners to consult him first.” 

“It may be the old gardener that’s 
ill,” observed the detective slowly, who 
had been turning his thoughts about. 

So it may,” acquiesced Miss Jemi- 
ma. “ He’s but a poor and creachy 
old thing by all accounts. J3ut no — 
they would hardly go to the expense of 
telegraphing for a physician for him, 
with papa at hand.” 

“ Oh they telegraphed, did they ? ” 

“ So the groom said.” 

“The girl is right,” thought the de- 
tective, “ they’d hardly telegraph if it 
were Hopley. It is Salter. And they 
Lave called in a stranger from a dis- 
tance in preference to Mr. Moore close 
by. The latter might have talked to 
the neighborhood. You have done me 
a vvonderful service, young lady, if you 
did but know it.” 

Mr. Strange did not offer to attend 
her home, but suffered her to depart 
alone. Miss Jemima, who was rather 
fond of a little flirtation, though she 
did perhaps favor one swain above all., 


others, resented the slight in her heart. 
She consolcil herself after the manner 
of the fox when he could not reach the 
grapes. 

“ He is nothing but a bear,” said 
she, tossing her little vain head as she 
tripped along in the deepening gloom 
of the evening. “ It is all for the best. 
We might have chanced to meet Mr. 
Cattacomb, and then he would have 
looked daggers at me. Or — my good- 
ness me! — perhaps Aunt Diana.” 

Mr. Strange strolled on, revolving 
the aspect of affairs in his official mind. 
His next object must be to get to 
speak to Dr. Cavendish and learn whom 
it really was that he had been to see. 
Of course it was not absolutely bevond 
the cards of possibility that the sick 
man was Hopley. It was not impossi- 
ble that Mrs. Grey might have some 
private and personal objection to the 
calling in again of Mr. Moore ; or that 
the old man had been seized with some 
illness so alarming as to necessitate the 
services of a clever physician in prefer- 
ence to those of a general practitioner. 
He did not think any of this likely, 
but it mhjlit be: and only Dr. Caven- 
dish could set it at rest. 

Perhaps some slight hope animated 
him that he might obtain an immedi- 
ate interview with Dr. Cavendish on 
the spot as he returned from Mrs. Whit- 
tle’s cottage. If so, lie found it defeat- 
ed. The gig came back with the two 
gentlemen in it, and it drove off direct 
to the village, not passing Fox wood 
Court at all, or the detective : but the 
latter was near enough to see it bowl 
along. Mr. Moore was dropped at liis 
house, and the groom — who had been 
sent on there — taken up; anci/theu 
the gig went on to’Basham. 

“I must see him somehow,” decided 
the detective — and the less time lost 
over it, the better. Of course a man in 
the dangerously-sick state this one is 
represented to be, cannot make liimself 
scarce as quickly as one in liealth 
could: but Salter has not played at 
hide-and-seek so long to expose him- 
self unnecessarily. He would make 
super-human efforts to elude us and 
rather get away dying than wait to be 


ILL-OMENED CHANCES. 


229 


taken. Better strike while the iron is 
hot. I must see the doctor to-night.” 

He turned back to the station : and 
was just in time to watch the train for 
Basham go puffing out. 

That train has gone on before its 
time ! ” he cried in anger. 

After reference to clocks and watch- 
es, it was found that it had gone on be- 
fore its time by more than a minute. 
The station master apologised ; said the 
train was up three or four minutes too 
early ; and as no passengers were wait- 
ing to go on by it, he had given the 
signal to start rather too soon. Mr. 
Strange gave the master in return a 
bit of his mind : but he could not recall 
the train, and had to wait for the next. 

The consequence of this was, that 
he did not reach Basham until past 
nine o’clock. Enquiring for the resi- 
dence of Dr. Cavendish, he was direct- 
ed to a substantial looking house near 
the market place. A boy in buttons, 
who came to the door, said the doctor 
w^as not at home. 

I particularly wish to see him,” 
said Mr. Strange. Will he be 
long ? ” 

Well, I don’t know,” replied the 
boy indifferently; who like the rest of 
bis tribe, had no objection to indulge 
in serni-insolence when it might be 
done with safety. ^‘Master don’t nev- 
er hardly see patients at this hour. 
None of ’em cares to come at night 
time.” 

I am not a patient. IMy business 
with Dr. Cavendish is private and ur- 
gent. I will wait until he comes in.” 

The boy not daring to make objec- 
tion to this, ushered the visitor into a 
small room that he called the study. 
It had one gas-light burning; just 
enough to illumine the bookshelves 
and a white bust or two that stood in 
the corners on pedestals. Here Mr. 
Strange was left to his reflections. 

He had plenty of food for them. 
That Salter was at the Maze, he felt 
as sure of as though he had already 
seen him. Superintendent Game had 
informed him who Smith the agent had 
acknowledged himself to be — Salter’s 
cousin — and stated his own views of 


the motives that induced his residence 
at Foxvvood. This was an additional 
thread in the web of belief Mr. Strange 
was weaving; a confirmatory link that 
seemed all but conclusive. In the 
short period that elapsed between 
his interview with Nurse Chafifeii, 
and his run up to London, he luol 
seen his friend Giles, the footihan : and 
by dint of helping that gentleman to 
trcUje days back and recall events, had 
arrived at a fact that could neither be 
disputed nor controverted — namely, 
that it could not have been Sir Karl 
Andinnian who was seen at the Maze 
by her and the surgeon. On that eve- 
ning Sir Karl, his wife and IMiss Blake 
had gone to a dinner party at a few 
miles distance. At the self-same min- 
ute of time that the event at the Maze 
took place, they were seated with the 
rest of the company at the dinner ta- 
ble, Mr. Giles himself standing behind 
in waiting. This was a fact: and had 
Miss Blake taken a little trouble to as- 
certain from Nurse Chaffen which eve- 
ning it was the mysterious gentleman 
had presented himself to view, and then 
recalled the day of the dinner, she 
would have discovered the fallacy of 
her belief in supposing him to have 
been Sir Karl. 

Mr. Strange had however discovered 
it, and that was unfortunatel}’ more to 
the purpose. Whatever might be the 
object of Sir Karl’s private visits to 
the Maze — and upon that point Mr. 
Strange’s opinion did not change, and 
he, had laughed quietly over it with 
the Superintendent — it was not Sir 
Karl who was seen that night. It was 
a great point to have ascertained : and 
the detective thought he had rarely 
held stronger cards at any game of 
chance than were in his hands ^low. 
That Mrs. Grey would prove to be Sal- 
ter’s sister, he entertained no doubt of. 

But the waiting was somewhat wea- 
ry. Ten o’clock. Unless Dr. Cav- 
endish made his appearance shortly, 
Mr. Strange would lose the last train 
and have the pleasure of walking all 
the way from Basham. He was stand- 
ing before one of the busts — the late 
Sir Idobert Feel’s — when the door open- 


230 


THE MAZE. 


ed and tliere entered a quiet, ladydike 
woman with cordial manners and a 
homely face. It was Mrs. Cavendish. 

“ I am so sorry you should have to 
wait so long for my husband/’ slie 
said. If I knew where he was gone 
I would send to him : but he did 
not happen to tell me before he went 
out. Your business with him is of im- 
portance, I hear.” 

“Yes, madam: of importance to 
myself. Perliaps he will not be much 
longer now.” 

“ I should think not. Will you 
allow me to send you in a glass of 
wine ?” 

He thanked her but declined it ; and 
she went 3.wa.y again. A short while 
and a latch-key was heard in the 
house door, denoting the return of its 
master. Some few words were exchang- 
ed in the hall between Dr. Cavendish 
and his wife, and the former entered : 
a short, quick-speaking man with gray 
whiskers. 

As a matter so much of course that 
it hardly needs mentioning, the detec- 
tive had to be no less crafty in conduct- 
ing this interview than he was in some 
other matters. To have said to Dr. 
Cavendish “ I want from you a descrip- 
tion of the patient you were called to 
see to-day that I may ascertain wheth- 
er it be indeed an escaped criminal of- 
whom I am in search,” would have 
been to close the doctor’s mouth. It 
was true that he might open his cards 
entirely and say “ I am Detective Tat- 
ton from Scotland Yard, and I require 
you in the name of the law to give me 
all the information you can about the 
patient : ” and in that case it was pos- 
sible that the Doctor miglit deem him- 
self obliged to give it. But he prefer- 
red to keep that master stroke in hand, 
and try another way. 

He possessed pleasant manners and 
had a winning way with him — it has 
been already said, he spoke as a gentle- 
man. Sitting down close to the Doctor, 
he began enquiring in an earnest tone 
after the new patient at the Maze, and 
spoke so feelingly about patients in 
general, that he half gained the physi- 
cian’s heart. 

“ You are some close friend of the 


gentleman’s ? ’’observed Dr. Cavendish. 
And the word “ gentleman ” set the 
one great doubt at rest. 

“ 1 am most deeply interested in 
him,” said the detective: and the un- 
suspicious doctor never noticed the 
really sophistical nature of the answer. 

“ Well, I am sorry to tell you that I 
think him ver}^ ill. I don’t know what 
they can have been about not to call in 
advice before.” And in a few short 
words he stated what disease the symp- 
toms seemed to threaten. 

It startled the detective. He was 
sufficient!}^ acquainted with surgery to 
know that it was one of difficulty and 
danger. 

“ Surely, Dr. Cavendish, he is not 
threatened with that!^’ 

“ I fear he is.” 

“ Why, it will kill him ! It is not 
curable, is it ? ” 

“ Barely, if ever, when once it has 
certainly set in.” 

“ And it kills soon.” 

“ Generally.” 

Mr. Strange looked very blank. To 
hear tliat his prize might escape him 
by death — or might die close upon his 
capture, was eminently unsatisfactory. 
It would be a termination to the great 
affair he had never thought of j it would 
tarnish all the laurels in a business 
point of view : and he was, besides, not 
a bad hearted man. 

“ He is very young for that kind of 
thing, is he not. Doctor?” 

“Yes. Bather so. 

“What brings it on, sir, in gen- 
eral ? ” 

“ Oh, various causes.” 

“Will trouble induce it? — I mean 
great trouble ; anxiety ; care ? ” 

“ Sometimes. Especially if there 
should be any hereditary tendency tqJt 
in the system.” 

“ Well, I did not expect to hear 
this.” 

“Are you his brother?” asked the 
Doctor, seeing how cut-up the visitor 
looked. “ Not that I detect any like- 
ness.” 

“ No, I am not his brother ; or any 
other relative. Do you consider it a 
hopeless case, Dr. Cavendish ? ” 

“ I have not said that. I should not 


ILL-OMENED CHANCES. 


231 


be justified in saying it. In fact, I 
have not 3"et formed a positive opinion 
on the case, and cannot do so until I 
sliall have examined fartlier into it. 
All I sa}^ at present is, that I do not 
like the symptoms.^^ 

“ And — if the S}^mptoms turn out to 
be what you fear ; to threaten the mal- 
ady you speak of — what then ? 

“ Why then there will be very little 
hope for him.’^ 

“ You are going over to him again 
then ? 

‘‘Of course. To-morrow. He is 
not in a state to be left without medi- 
cal attendance.’^ 

“How long do you think it has been 
coming on. Doctor? ” 

“ I cannot tell you that. Not less 
than a twelvemonth, if it be what I 
fear.” 

Mr. Strange played with his watch 
chain. He wanted the description of 
the man yet — though in fact he felt so 
sure as hardly to need it, only that de- 
tectives do not leave anything to 
chance. 

“ Would you mind telling me what 
you think of his looks, Dr. Caven- 
dish ? ” 

“Oh, as to his looks, thej’’ are the 
best part about him. His face is some- 
what worn and pallid, but it is a veiy 
handsome face. I never saw a nicer 
set of teeth. His hair and short beard 
seem to have gone grej^ prematurely, 
for I should scarcelj" give him forty 
years.” 

“He is only tive-and-thirty,” spoke 
the detective, thinking of Salter. And 
that, as the reader may recall, was also 
about the real age of Sir Adam. - 

“ Only that ? Then in looks he has 
prematurel}" aged.” 

“ In his prime, say two or three 
^years ago, he was as good-looking a 
man as one would wish to see,” observ- 
ed the detective, preparing to give a 
gratuitous description of Salter. “A 
tine, tall, upright figure, strongly-built 
withal ; and pleasant, handsome, 
frank face, with tine dark eyes and 
hair, and a color fresh as a rose.”' 

“ A}^,” acquiesced the physician, 
“ I only saw him in bed, and he is 


now mucl^ changed, but I should judge 
that would be just the description that 
once applied to him. You seem to 
hint at some great trouble or sorrow 
that he has gone through : he gives 
me just that idea. Of what nature 
was it ? — if I may ask.” 

“It was trouble that was brought 
upon him by himself, and that is al- 
wav^s the most trying to bear. As to 
its nature — you must pardon me for 
declining to particularize it. Dr. Cav- 
endish, but I am reallj^ not at liberty 
to do so. Do not put the refusal down 
to discourtesy. It is not yet over : and 
the chances are that you will certainly 
hear all about it in a day or two.” 

Dr. Cavendish nodded. He assum- 
ed the words to imply that the patient 
himself would enlighten him. As to 
the detective, his mission was over, and 
well over. He had learnt all he want- 
ed : what he had suspected was con- 
firmed. 

“That beautiful young woman, liv- 
ing alone at the Maze — what relation 
is she of his?” asked the doctor, as 
his visitor rose and took up his hat. 

“ His sister,” was the rather haz- 
ardous answer.” 

“ Oh, his sister. Mr. Moore could 
not make out who his patient was. 
He thought it might be the husband 
who had returned. When I asked his 
name to write a prescription for the 
chemist, Mr. Grey said I might put it 
in hers — Gre3\” 

“ I thank you greatly for 3’our court- 
esy, Dr. Cavendish.” 

“ You are welcome,” said the doctor. 
“ Mind, 1 have not expressed an3" cer- 
tain opinion as to his non-recover3\ 
Don’t go and alarm him. What I 
have said to you was said in confi- 
dence.” 

“ You ma3^ depend upon me. Good- 
night.” 

Mr. Detective Strange had to w^alk 
from Basham, for the last train was 
gone. Basham police station was near- 
ly opposite the doctor’s, and he stepped 
in there to leave a message on his svay. 
In the satisfaction his visit had afford- 
ed him, he did not at all mind the 
night walk : on the morrow the long- 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


O'-^O 


sough t-for Salter who had dodged them 
so vexatiousl}", would be in their hands, 
the prey would have fallen. A satis- 
faction, however, that was not without 
alloy in the damping circumstances 
that encompassed the man’s state of 
iiealth. And for that he could but feel 
compassion. 

jMidnight was chiming from the 
clock at Foxwood as he reached the 
jMaze — for he preferred to take that 
round-about way. Halting at the 
gate, he looked about, and listened for 
a minute or two. Then he let himself’ 
in with his master key, and went 
through the labyrinth. 

The house lay in silence. All seem- 
ed still as the grave. There was no 
light, no sound, no token of illness in- 
side ; no, nor even of inmates. He 
gently put the said key in the entrance 
door to see if it would yield. No : the 
door was not only locked but bolted 
and barred. He went to the summer- 
house, leading up from the underground 
places, and found the trap door there 
also bolted and barred within. All 
was as secure as wary hands could 
make it. 

And it is welcome to remain so un- 
til to-morrow,” breathed the detective, 
as he turned to thread his silent steps 
back through the maze, but then, Mr. 
Philip Salter, you are mine. Neither 
bolts nor bars can save you then.” 

And he finallj" let himself out again 
at the gate with that ingenious instru- 
ment. To be polite, we will apply a 
French name to it, and call it a passe- 
partout. 

Put Dr. Cavendish, reflecting after- 
wards upon the interview, rather won- 
dered who the stranger was, and 
whence he had come, and remembered 
then that he had totally omitted to 
ask his name. 

« 

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

ANN IIOPLEY STARTLED. 

The morning sun was chasing the 
dew from the grass; and the lawn at 
the Maze, glittering so brightly in the 
welcome rays, tohi no tales of the 


strange feet that had, unbidden and 
unsuspected, trodden it in the night. 
IMrs. Grey, looking wondrously pretty 
and delicate in her white morning 
gown, with her golden hair as bright 
as the sunshine, sat at breakfast in a 
little room whose window was beside 
the entrance porch. Her baby, wide 
awake but quiet and good, lay covered 
up on the sofa in its night dress. She 
was talking to it as she eat her break- 
fast, and the wide open little eyes were 
turned to her as if understood. 

“Good little darling! Sweet, gentle 
baby! It does not scream and fight 
as other babies do; no, never. It is 
mamma’s own precious treasure — and 
mamma is going to dress it presently 
and put on its pretty worked robe. 
Oh, baby, baby ! ” she broke off, her 
mode changing, and the distress at her 
heart rising to the surface above the 
momentary, make-believe dalliance, 
“ if we could but be at rest as others 
are ! we should be happier than the 
day has hours in it.” 

The accession of illness, attacking 
Sir Adam on the previous day, the 
great risk they ran in calling in a doc- 
tor to him, had shaken poor Rose’s 
equanimity to the centre. She strove 
to be brave always, for his sake ; she 
had been in the habit of keeping-in as 
well as she could the signs of the 
dread that ever lay upon her, and she 
had done so in a degree j^esterday. 
Put in the evening, when the doctor 
had safely gone and tlie day and its 
troubles were over, she Iiad yielded to 
a sudden fit of hysterical weeping. 
Her husband came into the room in 
the midst of it. He partly soothed, 
partly scoldetl her ; where was the use 
of fretting, he asked ; better take mat- 
ters as they came. With almost con- 
vulsive efforts she swallowed her sobs 
and dried her eyes ; and turned tlie 
tables on him by gently reproaching 
him with getting up, when Dr. Caven- 
dish had peremptorily enjoined him to 
stay in bed. Sir Adam laughed at 
that: saying lie felt none the worse for 
his fainting-fit, or wliatever it was, and 
was not going to lie abed for all the 
doctors in Christendom. 

The cheery morning sun is a great 


ANN HOPLEY STARTLED. 


233 


restorer — a gladdening comforter ; and 
Rose felt its influence. During her 
sleepless night, nothing could be more 
disheartening, nothing more gloomy 
than the view pervading her mind: 
but this morning, with that glorious 
light from heaven shining on all 
things, she and the earth alike revived 
under it. One great thing she felt in- 
cessant thankfulness for; it was a real 
mercy — that that miserable visitation 
of the detective and his policemen had 
not been delayed to the day of Sir 
Adam’s illness. Had they caught 
him in bed, no earthly power she 
thought could have saved him. Karl, 
stealing over for a few minutes at 
night, to see for himself what this 
alarm of increased illness of his broth- 
er's could mean, had warned them both 
to be prepared, for he had reason to 
believe the search might be repeated. 

“ This spot is getting more danger- 
ous dajT- by day,” murmured Rose to 
herself, pouring out another cup of tea. 

0, if we could but get away from it ! 
London itself seems as though it 
would be safer than this.” 

She proceeded with her meal very 
slowly, lier thoughts buried in schemes 
for tlieir departure. Of late she had 
ever been weaving a web of possibility 
for it, a cunning plan of action ; and 
she thought she had formed one. If 
necessarj^ she would stay on at the 
Maze with her baby — oh for months — 
for years, even — so that Adam ,could 
but get away. Until this man, the de- 
tective — more feared by her, more 
dreadful to contemplate than any man 
born into the world yet — should take 
his departure from the place, nothing 
might be attempted : they could only 
remain still and quiet ; taking what 
precautions they could against surprise 
and recapture, and she prajung always 
that her husband might be spared this 
last crowning calamity : beyond which, 
if it took place, there would never be 
anything in this world but blank de- 
spair. 

Ann Hopley was upstairs, making 
the beds and attending to matters there 
generally. Until her room was ready 
and the fire had burnt up well to dress 


» 

the baby by, Mrs. Grey would stay 
where she was, consequently she was 
at full liberty to linger over her break- 
fast. There was something in the ex- 
treme quietness of the little child and 
in its passive face, that, to a more ex- 
perienced eye might have suggested 
doubts of its well-being : a perfectly 
healthy infant is apt to be as trouble- 
some as it can be. Mrs. Grey sus- 
pected nothing. It had improved much 
since its baptism, and she supposed it 
to be getting strong and healthy. A 
soft, plaintive note, escaped the child’s 
lips. 

“ Yes, my baby. Mammahas not for- 
gotten yon. The room will soon be 
warm, and baby shall be dressed. And 
then mamma will wrap it up well and 
wrap herself up, and sit out of doors 
in the sunshine. And papa ”• 

The words died oft‘ in a low wail of 
horror ; her heart seemed to die aw’ay 
in the faintness of sick despair. Some- 
thing like a dark cloud had passed the 
window, shutting out for a moment the 
glad sunshine on the grass. It was 
Mr. Detective Strange: and, following 
closely on his heels, were the same two 
policemen, both of them this time in 
official clothes. They had come through 
the Maze without warning, no doubt 
by the help of that passe-partout, and 
were making swiftly for the entrance 
door — that lay open to the morning 
air. Her supposition was that they 
had fathomed Adam’s system of con- 
cealment. 

God help* us ! God save and pro- 
tect us ! ” breathed the poor wife, 
clasping her hands, and every drop of 
blood going out of her ashy face. 

Mr. Strange, who had seen her 
through the window, was in the room 
without a moment’s delay. He was 
courteous as before; he meant to be 
as considerate as the nature of his mis- 
sion allowed him to be : and even be- 
fore he had spoken a word, the keen, 
practised eye took in the visible signs. 
The small parlor, affording no possibil- 
ity for the concealment of Salter ; the 
baby on the sofa; the breakfast, laid 
for one only, of which Mrs. Grey was 
partaking. 


234 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


He was very sorry to be obliged to 
intrude upon her again ; but lie bad 
orders once more to search the IMaze ; 
and could but ob'^y them. And he 
begged her to believe that she lierself. 
individually, should be subjected to no 
annoyance or restraint. 

She made no answer : she could col- 
lect neither thoughts nor words to do 
so in her terrible fear. Mr. Strange 
retreated with a bow, and closed the 
door again, making a mental comment 
upon her evident distress, her ghastly 
looks. 

There’s no mistake, I think, that 
be is ready to our hands this time : her 
face alone would betray it. The curi- 
ous thing is where was he before ? ” 
Ann Hopley had finished the rooms, 
and was kneeling before the fire in her 
mistress’s chamber, coaxing an obsti- 
nate piece of coal to burn, and blowing 
at it with all her might, when a sligh.t 
noise caused her to turn. There stood 
]\Ir. Strange, a policeman at his elbow. 
She had not heard the entrance. Up 
she got, and stood staring ; unable to 
believe her eyes, and startled almost 
into screaming. But she knew how 
much lay upon her — almost life or 
death. 

^‘Goodness bless me!” cried she 
speaking freel3% as she strove to brave 
it out, and shaking inwardly. What- 
ever brings you folks here again ? ” 
‘^^Ve have to go through the house 
once more.” 

How did you get in ? ” 

Quite legally,” replied Mr. Strange. 

I have to do my duty.” 

So entirely was slie unprepared for 
this, and perhaps fearing that in her 
state of dismayed perplexity she mi ght I 
let fall some dangerous words of admis- 
sion, feeling also that she could do no 
good to her master l)y staying, but 
might do harm, Ann Hopley withdrew, 
after giving the fire a gentle lift with 
her poker, and went down to the kitch- 
en with a cool air, as if resolved not to 
let the affair interrupt her routine of 
work. Taking up a small basket of 
what she would liave termed “ fine 
things,” recently washed, consisting of 
caps and bits of lace and such like ar- 


ticles pertaining to the baby, she car- 
ried it out of doors beyond the end of 
the lawn, and began putting the things 
on gooseberry inishes to dry. Old Hop- 
ley was pattering about there, doing 
something to the celery bed. The po- 
liceman, left on guard below, stand- 
ing so that his sight could command all 
things, surveyed her movements with a 
critical eye. She did not go out of his 
sight, but came back with the basket 
at once. While spreading the things, 
she had noticed him watching her. 

“ I daresay I’m a kind of genteel 
prisoner,” ran her thoughts. “ If I at- 
tempted to go where those ugly eyes of 
his couldn’t follow me, he might be for 
ordering me back, for fear I should be 
giving warning to the master they are 
liere. Well, we can do nothing; it is 
in Heaven’s hands : better they came 
in to-day than yesterday.” 

Mr. Detective Strange had rarely 
felt surer of anything than he was that 
he should find Philip Salter in bed, 
and capture him without the slightest 
difficult}" in liis sick state. It was not 
so to be. Very much to his amazement, 
there appeared to be no sign what- 
ever of a sick man in the place. The 
rooms were all put in order for the day, 
the beds made, — nothing was different 
from what it had been at the time of 
his previous entrance. Seek as lie 
would his practised eye could find no 
trace; nay, no possibility ; of an 3" li id- 
den chamber. In fact, there was none. 

“ Where the deuce can the fellow 
be ? ” mused Mr. Strange, gazing about 
him with a thoughtful air. 

The underground places were visited 
with as little success : though the search 
he made was minute and careful. He 
could not understand it. That Salter 
had not been allowed time to escape 
out of doors, so rapid was their first 
approach, he knew : but nevertheless 
the trees and grounds were well exam- 
ined. Hopley lifted his poor bent back 
from his work in the celery bed — from 
which, as the watching policeman could 
have testiiied, he had not stirred at all 
— to touch his straw hat when the de- 
tective passed. Mr. Strange answered 
by a nod ; but did not accost him. To 


AiSIN HOPLEY STARTLED. 


235 


question the deaf old man would be 
only a waste of time. 

There was some mystery about all 
this ; a raj^stery he — even he — could 
not at present fathom. Just one pos- 
sibility crossed his mind and was ex- 
ceedingly unwelcome — that Salter 
alarmed by the stir that was being 
made, had in truth got away. Got 
away in spite of all the precautions 
that he, Strange, in conjunction with 
the police of Basham, had been for the 
past day or two taking secretly and un- 
observed. 

He did not believe it. He did not 
wish to believe it. And, in truth, it 
seemed to him not to be possible for 
more reasons than one. A man, in the 
condition of health hinted at by Dr. 
Cavendish, would be in no state for 
traveling. But still — with the Maze 
turned, as he honestly believed, inside 
out, and showing no sign or trace of 
Salter, where was he ? 

This took up some time. Ann Hop- 
le}^ had got her preparations for dinner 
forward, had answered the butchePs 
bell and taken in the meat ; and by and 
by went across the garden again to cut 
two cauliflowers. She was cominsr 
back with them in her apron, when 
Mr. Strange met her, and spoke. 

I have a question or two to put to 
you, Mrs. Hopley, which I must de- 
sire of you to answer — and to answer 
correctly. Otherwise I shall be obliged 
to summon you before the magistrate 
and compel your answers on your oath. 
If you are wise you will avoid giving 
me and yourself that trouble.’^ 

As far as answering 3’ou goes, sir, 
Pd as soon answer as be silent,’’ she 
returned in a temperate but neverthe- 
less injured tone. “But I must say 
that it puts m}^ temper up to see an in- 
nocent and inoffensive 3^oung lady^ in- 
sulted as 1113^ mistress is. What has 
she done to be signalled out for such 
treatment? If she were not entirely 
unprotciCted here, a lone woman, 3mu’d 
not dare do it. You told her the other 
day you were in search of one Salter: 
and you know that you looked in ever3^ 
hole and corner our house has got. 
And yet, here you come in, searching 
again ! ” 


“ It was not Salter, I suppose, who 
was ill yesterday ; for whom Dr. Cav- 
endish was telegraphed?” rejoined Mr. 
Strange signiflcantly, having allowed 
her speech to run on to its end. “Per- 
haps 3mu will tell me that ?” 

“Salter! That I’ll take m3^ oath it 
was not, sir.” 

“Who was it then ?” 

“ Well, sir, it was no one you need 
have any concern with.” 

“ I am the best judge of that. Who 
was it ? Remember, I ask you in the 
name of the law, and you. must answer 
me.” 

The gentleman came down on a short 
visit to my mistress and was taken ill 
while he sta3^ed. It frightened us out 
of our senses ; it was a fainting tit, or 
something of that sort, but he looked 
for all the world like a man dead ; and 
I ran off and telegraphed for a doctor.” 

The detective’s eyes were searching 
Ann Hopley through and through. 
She did not flinch : and looked inno- 
cent as the day. 

“ What has become of him ? ” 

“ He went away again last night, 
sir.” 

“ Went away, did he!” in a mock- 
ing tone of incredulitv. 

“ He did, sir. After the doctor left, 
he got up and dressed and came down, 
saying he was better. He didn’t seem 
to think much of his illness ; he had 
been as bad, he said, before. I confess 
I was surprised, m vself, to hear he was 
going away, for I thought him not well 
enough to travel. But I believe he 
was obliged to go.” 

“ What was his name ? ” 

I did not hear it, sir. lie was here 
but a few hours in all.” 

“ Look here, Mrs. Hople3' : if 3’ou 
will tell me where that gentleman 
came from and what his name is, I 
will give you five sovereigns.” 

Her e3'es opened apparently with 
the magnitude of the offer. 

“ I wish I could, sir. I*m sure I 
should be glad to earn all that, if it 
were in 1113" power — for I don’t believe 
Hopley will be able to work overmuch 
longer, and we are la3dng-up what lit- 
tle we can. I think he came from Lon- 
don, but I am not sure : and I think 


236 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


he’s going off to some foreign country, 
for he and my mistress were talking of 
the sea. She wislied liini a good voy- 
age and a safe landing. I lieard her.” 

Tiie detective paused. Was this 
true or false ? What was liis name ? ” 
Come, ]\rrs. Hopley.” 

“ Sir, I have said that I did not hear 
his name. He came wichout our ex- 
pecting him, or I might have heard be- 
forehand. mistress called him Ed- 

ward : but of course that must be his 
Christian name. I understood him to be 
some relative of hers.” 

I wonder what Hopley could tell 
me of this ? ” said the detective looking 
at her. 

Hopley could tell you nothing, .sir 
— but of course you are welcome to ask 
him if you please. Hople\^ never saw 
him at all, as far as I know ; and I did 
not say anything to the old man about 
it. If you question Hopley, sir, I must 
help you — 3mu’d be a month making 
him hear, yourself.” 

How is it that 3^11 keep your hus- 
band in ignorance of things? — as you 
seem to do.” 

“ Of what things, sir ? ” rejoined the 
woman. “ I’m sure I don’t keep 
things from him. I have no things to 
keep. It’s true I didn’t tell him of 
this. I was uncommonl3' tired last 
night, for it had been a trying day and 
full of work besides ; and it takes no 
little exertion, I can testif3% to make 
Hople3^ understand. One can’t gossip 
with him, as one can with people who 
have got their hearing.” 

This was no doubt true. The detec- 
tive was frightfully at fault, and did 
not conceal from himself that he was. 
The woman seemed so honest, so o[)en, 
so truthful, and yet he could have 
staked his professional fame that there 
lay m3"ster3^ somewhere, and that the 
sick man had gone awa3\ Instinct, 
prevision — call it what 3’()U will — told 
liim that the man was 13’ing close to 
his hand — if he could onl3" put that 
hand out in the right direction and hu’ 
it on him. Bending his head, he took 
a few steps about the grass: and Ann 
Hopley, hoping she was done with, 
W‘.Mjt into the kitchen with her cauli- 
tiovvers. 


Letting them fall on to the dresser 
out of her apron, she gave a sharp 
look around, indoors and out. The de- 
tective was then conversing with his 
two ])olicemen, whom he had called up. 
Now was her time. Slipping off her 
shoes — though it was not likel3^ her 
footsteps could be heard out on the 
lawn — she went across the passage, and 
opened the door of the little room ; 
from which Mrs. Grey, in her fear and 
distress, had not dared to stir. 

‘^Mistress,” she whispered, I must 
give 3mu the clue of what I have been 
savung, lest they come and ask you 
questions too. It would never do for 
us to have two tales, jmu one and 
me * another. Do 3^11 mind me, 
ma’am ? ” 

“ Go on, Ann. Yes.” 

“The ^ick gentleman came unex- 
pectedly yesterda3’’, and was taken ill 
here: 3^11 and me got frightened and 
sent telegraphing off for a doctor. He 
I got up after the doctor left — said he 
was better — didn’t seem to think much 
of his illness, said he had been as bad 
before. Went away again at night ; 
Aad to go ; was going off to sea I 
thought, as I heard 3mu wish liirn a 
good voyage and safe landing. I 
didn’t know his name, I said; only 
heard 3^11 call him Edward : thought 
it was some near relation of yours. — 
Can you remember all this, ma’am?” 

“ Oh yes. You had better go back, 
Ann. If the3" see 3mu talking to me 
— oh, go back ! Ann, I — I feel as 
though I should die.” 

“ Nay, but 3^11 must keep up,” re- 
turned the woman in a kind tone. 

“ I'll bring 3mu in a beat-up egg with 
a drop of wine in it. And, ma’am, 
you might say he was 3mur brother if 
the3^ come to close questioning: or 
brother-in-law. Don’t fear : I’dla3"all 
I’m worth the3^ won’t light upon the 
master. Twice they’ve been in a rod 
or two of him, but ” 

There was some slight nois'^. She 
broke off, closed the door softly, stole 
back again, and slipped her feet into her 
shoes. In less than a minute, when 
one of the men sauntered up throwing 
his eyes through all tlie windows, she 
was in the scullery pumping water 


UP THE SPOUTS AND DOWN THE DRAINS. 237 


over the cauliflowers with as much 
noise as the pump would make. 

Arm Hopley had judged correctly. 
Mr. Strange went to the little room, 
Knocking for permission to enter, and 
there held an audience of its mistress. 
The baby \siy on her lap now, flist 
asleep. His questions were tended to 
get a confirmation — or contradiction — 
of the servant’s ready tale. Mrs. 
Grey, though in evident tremor, and 
looking only fit for a ghost, had caught 
the thread of her lesson well, and 
answered correctly. Some particulars 
she had to improvise; for his questions 
were more minute than they had been 
to Ann Hopley. 

His name ? — Grey. What rela- 
tion ? — Brother-in-law. What did he 
come down for ? — To say good-bye be- 
fore embarking for Australia. Where 
would he take ship ? — she did not 
know; forgot: oh, now slie remem- 
bered, it was Gravesend. Was she in 
the habit of seeing him ? — Not often. 
He was never long together in one 
place, always traveling about. But 
was he in a fit state to travel ? — She 
did not know. She had thought he 
looked ill, and begged him to remain at 
least until to-day, but he said he could 
not as he might lose his ship. Did he 
come down to Foxwood by train ? — Oh 
yes, by train : there was no other way. 
And go up by train ? — To be sure. 
W/ilc/i train? — One of the evening 
ones : she thought it was past eight 
when he left the Maze.” 

It’s time for my mistress to take 
her egg,” interposed Ann Hopley at 
this juncture, entering the room with 
the said egg in a tumbler. I sup- 
pose she’s at libert}" to eat it.” 

To this last little fling Mr. Strange 
answered nothing. Ann Hopley put 
the tumbler on the table and withdrew. 
Poor Mrs. Grey looked too weak and 
ill to lift it to her lips, and let it stay 
where it was. 

Can it possibly be true that you 
are still in search of Philip Salter? — 
here ? ” she asked, raising her troubled 
eyes to the detective. 

“It is quite true,” he replied. 

“ And that you really believe him to 
be concealed here ? ” 


“Madam, I could stake my life upon 
it.” 

She shook her head in feeble impo- 
tence, feeling how weak she was to 
combat this fixed belief. It was the 
old story over again. Nevertheless she 
made one more effort. Mr. Strange 
was watching lier. 

“ Sir, I do not know what to say 
more than I said before. But I de- 
clare to you once again, as solemnly as 
I can ever speak anything in this life, 
as solemnly as I shall one day have to 
answer befor.e my Maker, that 1 know 
nothing of Philip Salter. He never 
was here at all, to my knowledge, later 
or earlier. Why will you not leave me 
in peace ? ” 

Mr. Detective Strange began to 
think that he should have to leave her 
in peace. Twice had he carried this 
fortress by storm to search at will its 
every nook and corner : and searched 
in vain. Armed with great power 
though he was, the law would not 
justify these repeated forcible entries, 
and he might be called to account for 
exceeding his duty. But the man was 
there — as surely as that the sun was in 
the heavens : and ^mt he could not un- 
earth him. He began to think there 
must be caves underground impenetra- 
ble to the e^ne of man, with some in- 
visible subtle entrance to them through 
the earth itself — and perhaps a subter- 
raneous passage connecting with Mr. 
Smith’s abode opposite. 

And so, the second search ended as 
the first had done — in signal failure. 
Once more there was nothing left for 
the detective but to withdraw his men 
and himself, and to acknowledge that 
he was, for the time, defeated. 


CHAPTER XXXV 

UP THE SPOUTS AND DOWN THE 
DRAINS. 

Turning his face towards the rail- 
way station after quitting the Maze, 
with the view of making some enquiries 
as to what passengers had alighted 
there the previous day, and had gone 
back again — not that be believed one 


238 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


syllable of the tale told him — Mr. 
Strange encountered the gig of Dr. 
Cavendish bowling down. The phy- 
sician recognized him and pulled up. 

What’s this I hear, sir, about my 
patient’s having gone off again ? ” cried 
the doctor, in a sharp tone. 

‘^1 have heard the same,” replied 
Mr. Strange. ‘‘ But I don’t believe it.” 

Oh then — 3’ou were not privy to 
it ? You did not send him ? ” 

‘^Not I, Dr. Cavendish. I went to 
the Maze betimes this mornin<; to — to 
pay him a visit ; and I was met with 
a tale that the bird had flown.” 

I can tell you, sir, that he was in 
a most unfit state to travel,” said the 
doctor with angry emphasis. I don’t 
know what the consequences will be.” 

^^Ay, if he had gone. But it’s all 
moonshine.” 

What do you mean by ‘moon- 
shine ? ’ Has he gone, or has he 
not ? ” 

“ They say at the Maze he has ; but 
I am sure he has not,” was the an- 
swer. “ There was a motive for his 
being denied to me, Dr. Cavendish; 
and so — and so — when I went in this 
morning they concocted an impromptu 
tale of his departure. That’s what I 
think.” 

“ They must have concocted it last 
night then,” said the doctor. “ The 
letter, informing me of the circum- 
stance, was posted last night at Fox- 
woodland therefore must have been 
written last night.” 

“ Did they write to tell you he had 
gone ? ” asked the detective after a 
slight pause. 

“ Mrs. Grey wrote. I got it by the 
post this morning. She would not 
trouble me to come over again, she said, 
as my patient had found himself oblig- 
ed to leave last night. But I have 
troubled myself to come,” added the 
doctor wrathfully, “ and to see about 
it ; for of all mad acts that man’s get- 
ting up from his bed yesterday and 
starting off by a shaking railway train, 
was the maddest. Drive on, James.” 

The groom touched the horse at the 
short command, and the animal sprung 
forward. Mr. Strange thought he 
would let the station ak)ne for a bit, 


and loiter about where be was. This 
letter, written last night to tell of the 
departure, somewhat complicated mat- 
ters. 

A very short while, and the doctor 
came out again. IMr. Strange accosted 
him as he was about to step into his 
gig-” 

“ Well, Dr. Cavendish, have you seen 
your patient ? ” 

“No, I have not seen him,” was the 
reply. “ It is quite true that he is gone. 
I find he is embarking on a sea vo}’- 
age, going off somewhere to the other 
end of the world, and he had to go up, 
or forfeit his passage mone3\” 

“They told ymu then what the}’ told 
me. As the}" ivouldf^ he added in- 
wardly. 

“ But there’s something in it I don’t 
altogether understand,” remarked the 
doctor. “ Not a syllable was spoken 
by the patient yesterday to denote that 
he was on the move, or that he had 
been on the move, even only to jour- 
ney down from London. On the con- 
trary, I gathered, or fancied I gather- 
ed, from the tenor of his remarks that 
he had been for some time stationary, 
and would be stationary for an indefi- 
nite period to come. It was when I 
spoke to him about the necessity of 
keeping himself quiet and free from 
exertion. What I don’t understand is 
why he should not candidly have told 
me that he had this voyage before 
him.” 

Mr. Strange did not answer. Vari- 
ous doubts were crowdiog upon him. 
Had the man got away ? — in disguise, 
say ? But no, ke did not think it. 

“ By the way, you did not tell me 
your name,” said the doctor, as he took 
his seat in the gig. 

“ My name ! — oh did I not ? jMy 
name is Tatton.” 

Dr. Cavendish bent down his head 
and spoke in a low tone. His groom 
was adjusting the apron. 

“ You hinted last night at some 
great trouble that the gentleman was 
in, Mr. Tatton. I have been wonder- 
ing whether that has to do with this 
sudden departure* — whether he had 
reason for being afraid to stay ? ” 

“Just the question that has occurred 


UP THE SPOUTS AXD DOWN THE DRAINS. 239 


to me, Dr. Cavendish,” confessed the 
detective. If he lias gone away, it 
is fear that has driven him.” 

The gig bowled onwards. Mr. 
Strange stood still as he looked after 
it ; and had the pleasure of seeing Mr. 
Philip Smith smoking his long pipe at 
his own window and regarding the 
landscape with equanimity. He went 
on the other way. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Tatton.” 

Mr. Tatton turned on his heel, and 
saluted Sir Karl Andinnian, — ■who had 
followed him up. There was a degree 
of suppressed indignation in KarFs 
face rarely seen. 

Is this true that I have just heard, 
Mr. Tatton,” he began, calling the 
man by his true name — that you 
have been again searching the Maze? 
My butler informs me that he saw you 
and two policemen quit it but now.” 

It is true enough. Sir Karl. Sal- 
ter is there. At least he was there 
yesterday. There cannot be the 
slightest doubt that the sick man to 
whom Dr. Cavendish was called, was 
Salter. I obtained a description of 
him from the doctor, and should have 
recognised it anywhere.” 

What was Karl to say ? He could 
not attempt to deny that a sick man 
had been there. It was an unfortu- 
nate circumstance that Sir Adam, in 
regard to height and color of hair, 
somewhat answered to the description 
of Philip Salter. 

“ Sir Karl, you must yourself see 
that there’s a mystery somewhere, re- 
sumed the detective ; who (having 
taken his clue from Superintendent 
Game) honestly believed that the bar- 
onet of Foxwood Court cared not a rap 
for Salter, and had no covert interest 
in the matter, beyond that of protect- 
ing his tenant at the Maze. Some- 
body, who is never seen by the public, 
is living at the Maze ; that’s certain. 
Or, at any rate, dodging us there. 
Remember the gentleman in evening 
attire seen by the surgeon and nurse; 
and now there’s this gentleman sick 
abed yesterday. These men could not 
be myths. Sir Karl. Wlio then are 
they ? ” 


From sheer inability to advance any- 
thing upon the point lest he should do 
mischief, Karl was silent. These re- 
peated trials, these shocks of renewed 
dread, were getting more than he knew 
how to bear. Had they come upon 
Adam this morning ? He did not dare 
to ask. 

As to the tale just told me by the 
woman servant and Mrs. Grey — that 
the sick gentleman was a relative who 
had come down by the train and left 
again, it will not hold water,” contemp- 
tously resumed the detective. “ Men 
don’t go out for a day’s journey when 
they are as ill as he is — no, nor take 
long sea voyages. Why, if what Dr. 
Cavendish fears is correct, there cannot 
be many weeks of life left in the man 
he saw yesterday: neither, if it be so, 
can the man himself be unconscious 
of it.” 

Karl’s heart stood still with its 
shock of pain. Did Dr. Cavendish 
tell you that, Mr. Tatton ? ” 

Yes. Well now, Sir Karl, that 
man is at the Maze still. I am con- 
vinced of it. And that man is Salter.” 

What did you find this morning ? ” 

‘‘ Nothing. Nothing more than I 
found before. When I spoke of the 
sick man and asked where lie was, this 
cock-and-bull tale was told me. Which 
of course they got up between them- 
selves.” 

As I said before, Mr. Tatton, I feel 
certain : I am certain : that you will 
never find Salter at the Maze. From 
the simple fact that he is not there to 
find, I am sure of it. I must most 
earnestly protest against these repeated 
anndyances to my tenant Mrs. Grey : 
and if you do not leave her alone for 
the future I shall see whether the law 
will not compel you. I do not — pray 
understand — I do not speak this in en- 
mity to you, but simply to protect 
her.” 

Oh of course I understand that. Sir 
Karl,” was the ready answer. There’s 
no offence meant, and none taken. But 
if yow could put 3murself in my place, 
you’d see my difficulty. Upon my 
word, I never was so mystified before. 
There Salter is : other people can see 


240 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


hinij and liave seen liim : and yet when 
I seandi I lind no traces of him. A 
thought actually crossed my mind just 
now whether there could be a subterra- 
nean passage from the ^laze to Clema- 
tis Cottage, and that Salter makes his 
escape there to his cousin on occasion. 
1 should like to searcli it.’’ 

‘‘ Come and do so at once,” said Karl 
lialf laughing. Nothing convinces 
like ocular demonstration. I give you 
full permission as owner of the cottage. 
I doubt not Smith will, as its tenant. 
Come and ask him.” 

The detective was in earnest, and 
they crossed toward it. Seeing them 
making for the gate ]\Ir. Smith came 
out of his house, pipe in hand. It 
was one of those long churchwardens. 
Karl spoke a few words of explanation : 
]\Ir. Detective Tatton suspected there 
might be secret rooms, or doors, or fu- 
gitives hidden in Clematis Cottage, and 
would like to search it. After the first 
momentary look of surprise, the agent 
remained unruffled. 

“ Pass on sir,” said he, extending the 
thin end of his pipe to direct the way. 
“ You are welcome to go where you 
j^lease : search into every nook and cor- 
ner ; up the spouts and down the drains. 
If you surprise old Betty, tell her you’re 
the plumber.” 

]\lr. Strange took him at his word. 
Karl and the agent waited in the sit- 
ting-room together. 

“ Is it after Sir Adam, sir ? ” breath- 
ed the agent. 

No. No suspicion of him. It’s 
after the other 1 told j’ou of. Hush. 
Better be silent.” 

The agent put his pipe away. Karl 
stood at the open window. Old Betty, 
tlje ancient servant, came in with a 
scared face. She was a little deaf, but 
not with a deafness like Hopley’s over 
the way. 

lt*s all right, Bett}^,” called out lier 
master. Only looking to the drains 
and spouts.” 

Satished in one sense of the word — 
fur in truth it was readily seen b}" the 
most unprofessional eye that there were 
no means afforded for concealment in 
the shallow-built cottage — the officer 
soon joined them again, lie had not 


had really a suspicion of the cottage, 
he said, by way of apology : it was 
merely a thought that crossed him. 
Mr. Smith, however, did not seem in- 
clined to take the matter quite indiffer- 
ently now, and accosted him. 

‘‘Now that you are satisfied, sir, per- • 
haps you will have no objection to tell 
me who the individual may be, that 
you have fancied I would harbor in my 
house. I heard from Sir Karl that you 
were after some one.” 

From the tone he spoke in, a very 
civil one, tinged with mocker}^, the de- 
tective caught up the notion that Smith 
already knew ; that Sir Karl must 
have told him. Therefore he saw no 
occasion for observing any reticence. 

“ When' you know that we are look- 
ing for Philip Salter, you need not be 
so much surprised that we have cast a 
thought to this house as Salter’s possi- 
ble occasional refuge, Mr. Smith.” 

The very genuine astonishment that 
seized hold of Smith, pervading his 
every look and word and gesture, was 
enough to convince those that saw it 
that he was unprepared for the news. 

“ Philip Salter ! ” he exclaimed, gaz- 
ing from one to the other, as if unable 
to believe. FhiLip Salter! Wliy, 
is he here ? Have you news that he is 
back in England ? ” 

“ We have news that he is here,” 
said the detective blandly. “ We sup- 
pose that he is concealed at the IMaze. 
Did 3 ’ou not know it, Mr. Smith ? ” 

Mr. Smith sat down in the chair that 
was behind him, as if sitting came ea- 
sier than standing, in his veritable as- 
tonishment. 

“ As heaven is my judge, it is a 
mistake,” he declared. “ Salter is not 
at the Maze ; never has been. AVe 
have never heard that he is back in 
England.” 

“ Did you know that he left Eng- 
land ? ” 

‘‘ Yes. At least, we had good reasons 
to believe that lie got away shortly af- 
ter that dangerous escape of his. It’s 
true it was never confirmed ; but the 
confirmation to his famil}' lies in the 
fact that we have never since heard of 
him or from him.” 

“Never ? ” 


UP THE SPOUTS AND DOWN THE DRAINS. 241 


Never. Were he in England we 
should have been sure to have had 
some communication from him, had it 
only been an application for aid — for 
he could not live upon air ; and outlets 
of earning are here closed to him. One 
thing you and ourselves may alike rest 
assured of, Mr. Detective — that, once 
he got safely awaj^ from the country 
he would not venture into it again. 

What with one disappointment and 
another, the detective almost question- 
ed whether it were not as Smith said ; 
and that Salter, so far as Foxwood was 
concerned, would turn out to be indeed 
a myth. But then — who was this mys- 
terious man at the Maze? He was 
passing out with a good day when Mr. 
Smith resumed. 

“ Have you any objection to tell me 
what gave rise to your suspicion that 
Salter was at Foxwood? Or in Eng- 
land at all ? '' 

But the officer had tact; plenty of 
it ; or he would not have done for his 
post ; and he turned the question off 
without any definite answer. For the 
true originator of the report, he who 
liad caused it to reach the ears of Great 
Scotland Yard, was Sir Karl Andin- 
nian. 

Ver}’- conscious of the fact was Karl 
himself. He raised his hat from his 
brow as he went home, to wipe away 
the fever damp, gathered there. He 
remembered to have read somewhere of 
one of the tortures devised by inquisi- 
tionists in the barbarous da 3 "s gone b 3 ^ 
An unhappj" prisoner would be shut in 
a spacious room ; and, day by da}’, 
watched the walls contracting by some 
mysterious agency and closing around 
him. It seemed to Karl that the walls 
of the world were closing around liim 
now: or, rather, round one who had 
become dearer to hiui in his dread po- 
sition than himself — his most ill-fated 
brother. 

At home or abroad there was not one 
single ray of light to illumine or cheer 
the gloom-. Abroad lay apprehension ; 
at home only unhappiness, an atmos- 
phere of estrangement that seemed to 
have nothing homelike or true in it. 
Karl went in, expecting to see the pony 


chaise waiting. He had been about to 
drive his wife out ; but, alarmed by the 
report whispered to him by Hewitt, 
and unable to rest in tranquillity, he 
had gone forth to see what it meant. 
But the chaise was not there. Maclean 
was at work on the lawn. 

Has Lady Andinnian gone?’’ he 
enquired, rather surprised — for Lucy 
had not learned to drive yet. 

My leddy is somewhere about in 
the garden I think, Sir Karl,” was the 
gardener’s answer. She sent the chay 
away again.” 

He found his wife sitting in a retired 
walk, a book in her hand ; apparently 
reading it. Lucy was fading. Pier 
face, worn and thin, had that indescrib- 
able air of pitiful sadness in it that 
tells of some deep-seated, ever present 
sorrow. Karl was all too conscious of 
it. He blamed her for her course of 
conduct : but he did not attempt to 
conceal from himself that the trouble 
had originated with him. 

I am very sorry to have kept you 
waiting, Lucy,” he began. I had to 
go to Smith’s on a little matter of busi- 
ness. You have sent the chaise away.” 

I sent it away : the pony was tired 
of waiting. I don’t care to go out at 
all to-day.” 

She spoke in an indifferent, almost 
a contemptuous tone. We must not 
blame her. Her naturally sweet tem- 
per was being sorely tried: day by day 
her husband seemed to act so as to af- 
ford less promise of any reconciliation. 

I could not help it,” was all he an- 
swered. 

She glanced up at the weary accent. 
If ever a voice spoke of unresisted de- 
spair, his did then. Her resentment 
vanished ; her sympathy was aroused. 

You look unusually ill,” she said. 

I am ill,” he replied. “ So ill 
that I should be almost glad to die.” 

Lucy paused. Somehow she never 
liked these semi-explanations. They 
invariably imbued her with a sense of 
self-reproach, an idea that she was act- 
ing harshly. 

Do you mean ill because of our es- 
trangement ? ” 

Yes, for one thing. That makes 


242 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


all other trouble so much worse for me 
that at times I find it rather difficult 
to put up with/’ 

Luc\^ played with her book. She 
wished she knew where her true dut}^ 
Jay. Oh how gladly, but for that 
dreadful wrong ever being enacted 
upon herself, would she fall upon his 
• arm and whisper out her beseeching 
prayer — Take me to jmu again, Karl ! 

“Should the estranged terms we are 
living on, end in a total and visible 
separation, you will liave the satisfac- 
tion of remembering in jmur after life, 
Luc}^, that you have behaved cruelly to 
me. I repeat it : cruelly.” 

“ I do not wish to separate,” mur- 
mured Lucy. 

“ The time may soon come when 
you will be called upon to decide one 
wa}^ or the other ; when there' will be 
nothing left to wait for; when all will 
be known to the world as it is known 
to us.” 

“ I cannot understand you,” said 
Lucy. 

“Let it pass,” he answered, declin- 
ing as usual to speak openly upon the 
dreaded subject; for, to him, every 
word, so spoken, seemed fraught with 
danger. “ You can guess what I 
mean, I daresay : and the less said the 
better.” 

“You seem always to blame me, 
Karl,” she rejoined, her voice softening 
almost to tears. 

“ Your own heart should tell you 
that I have cause.” 

“ It has been very hard for me to 
bear.” 

“ Yes, no doubt. It has hurt your 
pride.” 

“ And something beside m}^ pride,” 
rejoined Lucy with a faint blush of re- 
sentment. 

“ What has the bearing and the pain 
for you been, in comparison with what 
I have had to bear and suffer ? ” he 
a-^ked with emotion. “ I, at least, have 
not tried to make it worse for you, 
Lucy, though you have for me. In mj^ 
judgment, we ought to have shared the 
burden ; and so made it lighter, if pos- 
sible for one another.” 

Ay, sometimes she had thought that, 


herself. But then her womanly sense 
of insult, her justifiable resentment 
would step in and shatter the thought 
to the winds. It w’as too bad of Karl 
to reflect on her “ pride.” 

“ Is it to last for ever?” she asked 
after a pause. 

“ Heaven knows,” he answered. 
“ Heaven knows that I have striven to 
do my best. I have committed no sin 
against you, Lucy; save that of hav- 
ing married you when — when I ought 
not. I have most bitterly expiated 
it.” 

He spoke like one from whom all 
hope in life has gone ; his haggard 
and utterly spiritless face was bent 
downwards. Lucy, her love all in 
force, her conscience aroused touched 
his hand. 

“If I have been more harshly judg- 
ing than I ought, Karl, I pray you and 
heaven alike to forgive me.” 

He gave no answer : but he turned 
his hand upwards so that hers lay in 
it. Thus they sat for sometime, saying 
nothing. A singing bird was perched 
on a tree in front of them ; a light 
cloud passed over the face of the blue 
sky. 

“ Hut — jmu know, Karl,” she began 
again in a half whisper, “it has not 
been right, or w^ell, for — for those to 
have been at the Maze who have been 
there.” 

“ I do know’ it. I have repeatedly 
told you that I knew it. I would al- 
most have given my life to get them 
out. It wdll not be long now% I fear ; 
one w^ay or the other the climax I 
have been dreading seems to be ap- 
proaching.” 

“ What climax ? ” 

“ Discovery. Bringing wdth it dis- 
grace and pain and shame. It is wdien 
I fear that, Lucy, that I feel most bit- 
terly how’ wrong it was for me to mar- 
ry. But I did not know all the com- 
plication ; I never anticipated the evils 
that wmuld ensue. You must forgive 
me, for I did it three parts in igno- 
rance.” 

He clasped her hand as he spoke. 
Her tears were gathering fast. Karl 
rose to depart, but she kept iiis fingers 


TAKEN FROM THE EVIL TO COME. 


213 


in liers, hor tears dropping as she look- 
ed lip at him. 

^ I ask, Karl, if we are to live this 
kind of life forever ? ” 

“As you shall will, Lucy. The life 
is of your choosincr, not mine.” 

One long look of doubt, of compas- 
sion, of love into each other’s e^ms; 
and then the hand clasp that so thrill- 
ed through each of them was loosed ; 
fingers fell apart. Karl went off to 
the house : and Lucy burst into a 
storm of sobs so violent as to startle 
the little bird and stop his song. 

♦ 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

TAKEN FROM THE EVIL TO COME. 

Dreadful commotion at Mrs. 
Jinks’s. Young ladies coming in, all 
excitement; the widow nearly off her 
head. Their pastor was ill. 

On a sofa before his parlor fire he 
lay extended, the Reverend Guy; his 
head on a soft pillow, his feet (in em- 
broidered slippers) on an embroidered 
cushion. The room was quite an epit- 
0!ne of sacred decorations : crosses 
lay embedded amid ferns ; illuminated 
scrolls adorned the walls. Something 
was wrong with the reverend gentle- 
man’s tliroat : his hands and brow 
were feverish. Whether it was merely 
a relaxed throat, or a common soreness, 
or a quinsey threatening him, could 
not be decided in the general dismay. 
Some thouglit one wa}^ some another; 
all agreed in one thing — that it must 
be treated promptl\L The dear man 
was passive as any lamb in their min- 
istering hands, and submitted accord- 
ingly. What rendered the case more 
distressing and its need of recovering 
treatment all urgent, was the fact that 
the morrow would be some great day 
in tile calendar, necessitating high ser- 
vices at St. Jerome’s. Flow were they 
to be held when the chief priest was 
disabled ? Damon Puff was all very 
well ; but he was not the Reverend 
Guy Cattacomb. 

The Widow Jinks, assuming most 
experience by reason of years, and also 
in possessing a cousin who wa^: a nurse , 


of renown, as good as any doctor on 
an emergency, had recommended the 
application of “plant” leaves. The 
ladies seized upon it eagerly : anything 
to alla}^ the beloved patient’s sufferings 
and stop the progress of the disorder. 
The leaves had been procured without 
loss of time; Lawyer St. Henry's 
kitchen garden over the way having 
had the honor of supplying them; and 
they were now in process of prepara- 
tion in the ladies’ fair hands. Two 
were picking, three boiling and bruis- 
ing, four sewing, all inwardly intend- 
ing to apply them. The Widow Jinks 
had her hands full below ; gruel, broth, 
jelly, arrow root, beef tea, custard pud- 
dings, and other things being alike in 
the course of preparation over the 
kitchen fire : the superabundant 
amount of sick dainties arising from 
the fact that each ladj^ had ordered 
that which seemed to her best. What 
with the care of so many saucepans at 
once, and the being called off perpet- 
ually to answer the knocks at the 
froFit door, the widow felt rather wild ; 
and sincerely wished all sore throats at 
Jericho. Eor the distressing news had 
spread; and St. Jerome’s fair worship- 
pers were coming up to the house in 
uninterrupted succession. 

It fell to Miss Blake to apply the 
cataplasm. As many assisting, bj^ dint 
of gingerly touching the tip of the 
reverend gentleman’s ears or holding 
back his shirt collar as could get their 
fingers in. Miss Blake, her heart at- 
tuned to sympathy, felt stirred by no 
common compassion. She was sure 
the patient’s eyes sought hers; and 
forgetting the few years difference in 
their ages, all kinds of flattering ideas 
and sweet hopes floated into her mind 
— for it was by no means incumbent 
on her to waste her chances in wearing 
the willow for that false renegade — 
false in more ways than one — Karl 
Andinnian. Looking on passively, 
but not tendering her own help amid 
so many volunteers, sat Jemima 
Moore in a distant chair, her face be- 
tokening anjUhing but pleasurable 
ease. There were times when she felt 
jealous of Miss Blake. 

The leaves applied, the throat bound 


244 


WITHIN THE iMAZE. 


np. and some nonrisliment administer- 
ed in the shape of a disli of brotli, 
nothing remained to be essayed save, 
that tlie patient slionld endeavor to isjet 
some sleep. To enable liiin to do this, 
it was obvious, even to the anxious 
nnrses themselves, that he should be 
left alone. jMiss Blahe sn^p^ested that 
they should all make a pilgrimage to 
St. Jerome’s and pray for him. 
Eagerly was it seized upon, and bon- 
nets were tied on. A thought crossed 
each mind almost in unison — that one 
at least might have been left behind to 
watch the slumbers : but as nobody 
would help another to the office, and 
did not like very well to propose her- 
self. it remained unspoken. 

You’ll come back again ! ’’ cried 
the reverend sufferer, retaining Miss 
Blake’s hand in his, as she was wish- 
ing him good bye. 

“ Rely upon me, dear Mr. Catta- 
comb,’’ was the response — and IVfiss 
Biake regarded the promise as sacred, 
and would not have broken it for un- 
told gold. 

So they trooped out : Mr. Catta- 
comb left to himself and to quiet, 
speedily fell into the desired sleep. 
He was really feeling ill and feverish. 

The time was drawing on for the 
late afternoon service; and Tom Pepp 
stood tinkling the bell as the pilgrims 
a[){)roached. Simultaneously with their 
arrival, there drove up an omnibus, 
closely packed with devotees from Ba- 
sham under the convoy of Mr. Puff. 
That reverend junior, his parted hair 
and moustache and lisp in perfect or- 
der, conducted the services to the best 
of his ability ; and the foreheads of 
some of his fair hearers, touched the 
ground in humility when they put up 
their prayers for their sick pastor. 

The autumn days were short now ; j 
the services had been somewhat long, 
and vv’hen St. Jerome turned out its 
Hock, evening had set in. You could 
hardly see 3m ur hand before you. 
Some went one way, some another. 
The omnibus started back with its 
freight : Mr. Puff, however (to the 
iUt(‘r mental collapse of those inside 
it) joined the pilgrims on their return 


to INfr. Cattacomb’s. Miss Blake went 
straight on to Fox wood Court ; for, 
mindful of her promise to the patient, 
she wished to avert Lady Andinniau 
that she should not be in to dinner. 

IMargaret Suranor was staying with 
Lucy; her invalid, sofa and herself 
having been transported to the Court. 
The rector and his wife had been in- 
vited to an informal dinner that eve- 
ning; also, Mr. Moore and his sister: 
so Miss Blake thought it better to give 
notice that she should be absent, that 
the}^ might not wait for her. Jemima 
Moore, a very good-natured girl on the 
whole, offered to accompany her, seeing 
that nobody else did ; for they all 
trooped oft’ in the clerical wake of Mr. 
Puff. As the two ladies left the court 
again, they became aware that some 
kind of commotion was taking place 
before the Maze gate, ^t was too 
dark to see so far, but there was much 
bawling and groaning. 

Do let us go and see what it is ! 
cried Miss Jemima. And she ran off 
without further parley. 

The irruption into the JMaze of Mr. 
Detective Tatton — who was by this 
time known in his real name and char- 
acter — had excited much astonishment 
and speculation in Foxwood; the more 
especially as no two opinions agreed as 
to what there was within the Maze 
that he could be after. The prevailing 
belief among the juvenile population 
was, that a menagerie of wild beasts 
had taken up its illegitimate abode in- 
side. They collected at all hours in 
choice groups around the gate, press- 
ing their noses against the iron work 
in the ho[)e of getting a peep at the 
animals; or at least of hearing them 
roar. On this evening a dozen or two 
had come down as usual ; Tom Pepp, 
having cut short the ringing out, in 
his ardor to make one, and omitted to 
put off the conical (*ap. 

But these proceedings did not please 
Sir Karl Andinnian’s agent at Clema- 
tis Cottage. That gentleman, after 
having warned the boys sundr3’' times 
to keep away, and enlarged on the 
perils that indiscriminate curiosity 
generall}" brought to its indulgers, had 


V 


TAKEN F R O :\r THE EVIL TO COME. 


245 


crossed the road to-iiiglit armed with a 
long gig winp, whicli he began to lay 
about him kindly. The small fry, ell- 
in g and shrieking, dispersed immedi- 
ately. 

Little simpletons!” cried Miss 
Jemima Moore, as the agent walked 
back with his whip, after explaining to 
her. Papa says the police only went 
in to take the boundaries of the par- 
ish. And — oh 1 there’s Tom Pepp in 
his sacred cap ! Miss Plake, look at 
Tom Pepp. Oh! if Mr. Cattacomh 
could hut see him ! ” 

Miss Blake, who never did things in 
a hurry, walked leisurely after the of- 
fending ho}’, intending to pounce upon 
liim at St. Jerome’s. In that self- 
same moment, the Maze gate was 
thrown open, and Mrs. Grey, her gold- 
en hair disordered, herself in evident 
tribu1atiol^^ came forth wringing her 
hands, and amazing Miss Jemima more 
considerably than even the whip had 
amazed the hoys. 

Wliat she said, Jemima hardly 
caught. It was to the effect that her 
bah}" was in convulsions ; that she 
wanted Mr. Moore on the instant and 
had no one to send. 

I’ll run for papa,” cried the good- 
natured girl. ^^I’ll run at once. I 
am his daughter. But you should get 
it into a warm bath, instantly, 3 "ou 
know; there’s nothing else does for 
convulsions. I would come and help 
you if there were any one else to go 
for papa.” 

In answer to this kind suggestion, 
Mrs. Grey stepped inside again and 
shut the gate in Miss Jemima’s face. 
But she thanked her in a few heartfelt 
words, and begged her to get Mr. 

. Moore there without delay : her ser- 
vant was already preparing a bath for 
the hab 3 ^ 

Jemima ran at the top of her speed, 
and met her father yid aunt walking 
to Fox wood Court. ^Jdie doctor hasten- 
ed to the Maze, leaving his sister to 
explain the cause of his* absence to Sir 
Karl and Lady Andinnian. 

Dinner was nearly over at the Court, 
when the doctor at length got there. 


The baby was better, he said : but he 
was by no means sure that it would 
not have another attack. If so, he 
thought it could not live : it was but 
weakly at the best. 

As may readily be imagined, scarcely 
any other topic formed the conversation 
at the dinner table. Not one of the 
guests, seated round it, had the slight- 
est notion that it was, of all others, 
most intensel}'’ unwelcome to their host 
and hostess : the one in his dread to 
hear the Maze alluded to at all ; the 
other in her bitter pain and jealousy. 
The doctor enlarged upon the isolated 
position of Mrs. Grej", upon her sweet- 
ness and beauty, upon her warm love 
for her child, and her great distress. 
Sir Karl made an answering remark 
when obliged; Lucy sat in silence, 
bearing her cross. Ever}^ word seemed 
to be an outrage upon her feelings. 
The guests talked on; but somehow 
each felt that the harmony of the 
meeting had left it. 

Making his dinner off one dish, in 
spite of tlie remonstrance of Sir Karl 
and the attention of iMr. Giles and his 
fellows, the doctor drank a cup of coffee 
and rose to leave again. His sister, 
begging Lady Andinnian to excuse her, 
put on her hat and shawl, and left with 
him. 

Are you going over to the i\raze, 
William ? ” she asked when they god 
out. 

I am, Diana.” 

Then I will go with you. That’s 
why I came away. The poor young 
thing is alone, save for her servants, 
and I think it only a charity that some 
one should be with her.” 

The surgeon gave a grin of satisfac- 
tion in the darkness of the niglit. 
“Take care, Diana,” said he with 
assumed gravity. “ You know the 
question the hoi}- ones at St. Jerome's 
are raising — whether that lovely lady 
is any better than she shouM be.” 

Bother to St. Jerome’s,” independ- 
ently returned Miss Diana. If the 
holy ones, as you call them, wouM 
ex[)erid a little more time in cultivating 
St. Paul’s enjoined charity, and a little 


246 


W 1 T II 1 X THE MAZ E. 


l^ss in pra3’ing with those two persons 
of theirs, Heaven iniglit be better 
served. Let tlie ladj’ be what slie will, 
she is to he pitied in her distress, and 
I am cfoing to her. Brother William ! ’’ 
“ Well?^’ 

“ I cannot tliink what is the matter 
with Lady Andinnian. She looks just 
like one that’s pining away.” 

The evening went on at tlie Court. 
]\riss Blake came back, bringing the 
news that the Reverend Mr. Catta- 
ctnnb’s throat was easier — whiidi was 
of course a priceless consolation. At 
ten o’clock Mr. and Mrs. Sumner took 
their departure. Sir Karl walking with 
them as far as the lodge. Lost in 
thought, he had gone out without his 
hat. In returning for it, he saw his 
wife at one of the flower beds. 

Luc}' ! Is it 3"ou, out in the damp? 
What do you want ? ” 

I am getting one of the late roses 
for Margaret,” was the answer. She 
likes to have a flower to cheer her when 
she lies awake at night. She saj’s it 
makes her think of heaven.” 

“ I will get it for you,” said Karl, 
and he chose the best he could in the 
star light, and cut it. 

“ Lucy, I am going over the way,” 
he resumed in a low tone, as they 
turned to the steps. I cannot tell 
when I shall be back. Plewitt will sit 
up for me.” 

Of all the audacious avowals, this 
sounded about the coolest to its poor 
young listener. Her quickened breath 
seemed to choke her ; her heart beat 
as though it would burst its bounds. 

Why need you tell me of it?” 
she passionately^ answered, all her 
strivings for patience giving way be- 
fore the moment’s angry pain. 

ivarl sighed. It lies in my duty^ 
to do what I can, Lucy: as I should 
have thought you might see and recog- 
nise. Should the child have a relapse 
in the course of the niglit, I shall be 
there to fetch Moore. There’s no one 
else to go.” 

Lucy let fall the train of her dinner 
dress, which she had been holding 
gathered round her, and swept across 


the hall ; vouchsafing back to him 
neither look nor word. 

The chamber lay in semi-light: with 
that still hush pervading it, common to 
rooms where death is being waited for 
and is seen visibly^ approaching. IMr. 
Moore’s fears had been verified. The 
infant at the Maze had had a second 
attack of convulsions, and was dying. 

It lay folded in a blanket on its 
mother’s lap. The peaceful little face 
was at rest now; the soft breathing 
getting slower and slower, alone stir- 
ring it. Miss Diana, her hat thrown 
oif, sat on her heels on the hearth rug, 
speaking every now and then a word 
or two of homely comfort: the doctor 
stood near the fire looking on: Ann 
Hopley was noiselessly^ putting to 
rights some things in a corner. 

With her golden hair all pushed 
from her brow, and her pretty face, so 
delicate and wan, bent downwards, she 
sat, the poor mother. Save for the 
piteous sorrow in the despairing eyms, 
and a deep sobbing sigh that would 
arise in the throat, no sign of emotion 
escaped her. She knew the fiat — that 
all hope was over. The doctor, who 
saw the end getting nearer and nearer, 
and was aware that such ends are some- 
times painful to see, even in an infant 
— the little frame struggling with the 
fleeting breath, the helpless hands fight- 
ing for it — had been anxious that Mrs. 
Grey’ should resign her charge to some 
one else. Miss Diana made one more 
eftbrt to bring it about. 

“ My dear I know you must be tired. 
You’ll get the cramp. Let me take it, 
if only for a minute s relief.” 

“ Do, Mrs. Grey’,” said the doctor. 

She looked up at them with beseech- 
ing entreaty ; her hands tightening 
involuntarily over the little treasure. 

“ Please don’t ask me,” she piteously 
said. I must have him to the last. 
He is going from me forever.” 

Xot for ever, my dear,” corrected 
Miss Diana. You will go to him, 
though he will not return to you.” 

The <loor softly’ opene<i, and some 
one came gently in. Absorbed by the 


TAKEN FROM THE EVIL TO COME. 


247 


dying ^hild though she was, and by the 
suiToundings it brought, Mrs. Grey 
glanced quicklj’’ up and made a frantic 
movement to beckon the intruder back, 
lier face changing to some dread appre- 
hension, her lips parting with fear. She 
thought it might be one who must not 
dare to show himself if he valued his 
life and liberty, but it was only Karl 
Andinnian. 

“ Oh, Karl, he is dying ! ’’ she cried, 
in the hasty impulse of the moment — 
and the dr3’’ eyes filled with tears. My 
darling baby is dying.” 

' I have been so sorry to hear about 
it, Mrs. Grey,” returned Karl, who had 
his wits about him if she had not, and 
who saw the surprise of the doctor and 
Miss Diana at the familiarit}^ of the 
address. I came over to see if I could 
be of an}- use to you.” 

He fell to talking with Mr. Moore in 
an under tone, giving her time to re- 
cover her mistake ; and the hushed si- 
lence fell oil the chamber again. Karl 
bent to look at the pale little face, so 
soon to put on immortalit}^ ; he laid 
his hand lightly on the damp forehead, 
keeping it therefor a minute in solemn 
silence, as though breathing an inward 
prayer. 

He will be better off there than 
here,” whispered he then to the mother, 
in turning to leave the chamber. ‘‘ The 
world is full of thorns and care, as some 
of us too well know : God is taking him 
from it,” ' 

Pacing a distant room like a caged 
lion, was Sir Adam Andinnian. He 
wheeled round on his heel when his 
brother entered. 

Was ever position like unto mine, 
Karl ?” he broke out, anger, pain, im- 
patience, and most deep emotion ming- 
ling together in his tone. Here am 
I, condemned to hide myself within 
these four walls, and may not quit 
them even to see m\" child die ! The 
blackest criininal on earth can call for 
his friends on his death-bed. When 
are that officious doctor and his sister 
going ” 

They are staying out of compas- 
sion to Rose,” spoke Karl in his quiet 


voice. Oh Adam, I am so sorry for 
this ! I feel it with my whole heart.” 

Don’t talk,” said Adam, rather 
rouglily. “No fate was ever like my 
fate. Heaven has mercy for others : 
none for me. Because my own bitter 
punishment was not enough, it must 
even take my son ! ” 

“ It does seem to you cruel, I am 
sure. But God’s ways are not our 
ways. He is no doubt taking him, in 
love from the evil to come. When we 
get up Above there ourselves, Adam, 
we shall see the reason for it.” 

Sir Adam did not answer. He sat 
down and covered his face with his 
hand, and remained in silence. Karl 
did not break it. 

Sounds by and by. The doctor and 
his sister were departing, escorted by 
Ann Hopley — who must see them out 
at the gate and make it fast again. 
Adam was bursting from the room ; but 
his brother put his arm across the en- 
trance. 

“ Not 3"et, Adam. Not until Ann is 
in again and has the door fast. Think 
of the consequences if you were seen ! ” 
He recognized the good sense, the 
necessity for prudence, fierce as a caged 
lion though his mood was. The bolts 
and bars were shut at last, and Adam 
went forth. 

In its crib lay the baby then, straight 
and still. The fluttering heart had 
ceased to beat ; the sweet little peace- 
ful face was at rest. Rose knelt by 
her own bed, her head muffled in the 
counterpane. Sir Adam strode up to 
his child and stood looking at it. 

A minute’s silence deep as that of 
the death that was before him, and then 
a dreadful burst of tears. They are 
always dreadful when a man sheds 
them in his agon3^ 

“It was all we had, Karl,” he said 
between his sobs. “ And I did not 
even see him die ! ” 

Karl took the strong but now pas- 
sive iuuids in his. His own ejms were 
wet as he strove to sa}^ a word of com- 
fort to his brother. But tliese first 
moments of grief were not best calcu- 
lated for it. 


248 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


“ He is happier than he could ever 
hare been here, Adam. Try and re- 
alize it. He is already one of God’s 
bright angels.’^ 

And my young Lady Andinnian, 
over at Foxwood Court, did not choose 
to go to bed, but sat up to indulge her 
defiant humor. Never had her spirit 
been so near open rebellion as it was 
that night. Sir Karl did not come in : 
apparently he meant to take up his 
abode at the Maze until morning. 

“ Of course he must be there when 
his child is dying !” spake she to her- 
self, as she paced the carpet with a step 
as impatient and a great deal more in- 
dignant than those other steps that bad 
paced, that night. Of course she 
must be comforted! While I ” 

The words were choked by a flood of 
emotion. Bitter reflections crowded 
on her, one upon another. The more 
earnestly and patiently she strove to 
bear and /brbear, the more cruelly 
seemed to rise up her afllictions. And 
Lucy Andinnian threw herself down in 
abandonment, wondering whether all 
pity had quite gone out of heaven. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

NEWS FOR MR. TATTON. 

What Mr. Detective Tatton’s future 
proceedings would have been, or to 
what untoward catastrophe as connect- 
ed with this history, they might have 
led had his stay at Foxwood been pro- 
longed to an indefinite period, cannot 
here be known. He remained on. So- 
cial matters had resumed their ordi- 
nary groove. . The Maze was left un- 
disturbed ; Mr. Cattacomb was well 
again ; St. Jerome’s in full force. 

It might be that Mr. Tattoniwas 
waiting — like a certain noted character 
with whom we all have the pleasure of 
an acquaintance — for something to 
turn up.’’ That he was contemplating 
some great coup, which would throw 
his prize into his hands, while to the 
world and Mrs. Jinks he appeared 
only to be enjoying the salubrious 


Kentish air, and amusing himself with 
politics generally we may rest pretty 
well assured of. But this agreeable ex- 
istence was suddenly cut short. 

One morning when IMr. Tatton’s 
hopes and plans were, like Cardinal 
Wolsey’s greatness, all a ripening, he 
received a communication from Mr. Su- 
perintendent Game at Scotland Yard, 
conveying the astounding intelligence 
that the real Philip Salter had not 
been in Foxwood at all, but had just 
died in Canada. 

Mr. Tatton sat contemplating the 
letter. He could not have been much 
more astonished had a bombshell burst 
under him. Of the truth of the infor- 
mation there could be no question : its 
'reliability was indisputable. One of 
the chief officers in the home police 
force who was in Canada on business, 
and had known Salter well, discovered 
him in the last stage of a wasting sick- 
ness, and saw him die. 

‘‘ I’ve never had such a fool’s game 
to plaj^ at as thisf ejaculated Mr. Tat- 
ton when sufficiently recovered to 
speak ; and never wish to have such 
another. What the deuce, then, is the 
mystery connected with the Maze?” 

Whatever it might be, it was now no 
business of his : though could he have 
afforded to waste more time and money, 
he would have liked very much to stay 
and track it out. Summoning the Widow 
Jinks to his presence, he informed her 
that he was called away suddenly on 
particular business : and then proceed- 
ed to pack up. Mrs. Jinks resented 
the departure as quite a personal inju- 
ry, and wiped the tears from her e3’es. 

“ On his wa}" to the station he chanc- 
ed to meet Sir Karl Andinnian, and 
the latter’s heart went up with a great 
bound. The black bag in Mr. Tatton’s 
hand, and the portmanteau being 
wheeled along beside him, spoke a 
whole volume of hope. 

“Good morrwng, Sir Karl. You 
have misled us ffriely as to the Maze.” 

“ Wh}^, what do you mean, Mr. Tat- 
ton ? ” asked Karl. 

“ Salter has turned up in Canada, 
or, one might perhaps rather saj^ turn- 
ed down, for he is dead, poor fellow.” 


NEWS FOR MR. TATTON. 


249 


Tndped ! ’’ 

“ In deed and in truth. One of our 
officers is over there and was with him 
when he died. It was too bad of you 
to mislead us in this way, Sir Karl.’’ 

Nay, you misled yourselves.” 

A fine quantity of time I have 
wasted down here ! ” weeks upon weeks. 
And all for nothing. I never was so 
vexed in my life.” 

You have yourself to blame — or 
those who sent you here. Certainly 
not me. The very first time I had the 
honor of speaking to you, Mr. Tatton, 
I assured you on the word of a gentle- 
man, that Salter was not at Foxwood.” 

“ Well, come. Sir Karl ” — what is 
the secret being enacted within the 
place over yonder? ” — pointing his fin- 
ger in the direction of the Maze. 

I am not in the habit of inquiring 
into the private affairs of my tenants,” 
was the rather haughty answer. “ If 
there be any secret at the Maze — 
though I think no one has assumed it 
but yourself — you may rely upon it 
that it is not in any way connected 
with Salter. Are you taking your final 
departure ? ” 

“ It looks like it, Sir Karl ” — nod- 
d i n g 1 0 w a rd s t h e 1 u g ga ge go i n g 0 n \A' a r d s . 

When the game’s at the other end of 
the world, and dead beside, it is not 
much use my staying to search after it 
in this. I hope the next I have to 
hunt will bring in more satisfaction.” 

They said farewell cordially. The 
detective in his natural sociability ; 
Karl in his most abundant gratitude 
for the relief it would give his brother. 
And Mr. Detective Tatton, hastening 
on in the wake of the portmanteau, 
took the passing up-train, and was 
whirled awa\’ to London. A minute 
or two afterwards Karl met his agent, 
lie was beginning to impart to him 
tidings about Salter, when Smith in- 
terrupted him. 

I have heard it, Sir Karl. I got a 
letter from a relative this morning, 
which told we all. The information, 
has taken Tatton off the land here, I 
expect : I saw ^mu speaking to him.” 

“ You are right.” 

As to poor Salter, the release is 


probably a happy one. He is better 
off than he ever could have been again 
in this world. But what on earth put 
Scotland .Yard on the false scent tliat 
he was at Foxwood will always be a 
proble?n to me. Tattoo’s gone for 
good, I suppose, sir.” 

He said so.” 

And Sir Adam is, in one sense 
free again. There will be less danger 
in his getting away from Foxwood 
now, if it be judged desirable that he 
should go.” 

Karl shook his head. There was 
another im[)ediment now to his getting 
away — grievous sickness. 

That Sir Adam Andinnian, the un- 
fortunate fugitive hiding in peril at 
the Maze, had some very grave dis- 
order upon him, could no longer be 
doubtful to himself or to those about 
him. It seemed to develop itself more 
surely day by da^^ Adam took it as 
calmly as he did other evils : but Karl 
was nearly out of his mind with dis- 
tress at the complication it brought. 
Most necessary was it for Adam to 
have a doctor; to be attended by one ; 
and yet they did not dare to put the 
need in . practice. The cjilling in of 
Dr. Cavendish had entailed onlj’ too 
much danger and terror. 

The little baby, Charles Andinnian, 
was lying at rest in Foxwood church- 
yard, within the precincts consecrated 
to the Andinnian family. Ann Hop- 
ley chose the grave — and had a fight 
over it with the clerk. That function- 
ary protested he would not allot it to 
any baby in the world. 8he might 
choose any spot except that: but that 
belonged to the Foxwood Court people 
exclusively. Ann Hopley persisted 
the baby should have that, aiul no 
other: it was under the weeping elm 
tree, she said, and the little grave 
would be shaded from the summer sun. 
Sir Karl Andinnian settled the dispute. 
A|)pealed to by the clerk, he gave a 
ready and courteous permission : and 
the child was laid there. Ann Hopley 
then paid a visit to the stone mason 
and ordered a little white marble stone ; 
nothing to be inscribed on it but the 
initials “ C. A.” and the date of tlie 


250 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


death. Poor Pose had only her sick 
husband to attend to now. 

He was not always sick. There 
were days when he seemed to be as 
well and almost as active as ever. And 
upon that would supervene a season of 
pain and dread and danger. 

One afternoon when Karl was driv- 
ing his wife by in the pony chaise, 
Ann Hopley had the gate open, and 
was standing at it. It was the day 
following the departure of Mr. Tatton. 
Something in the woman’s face — a 
kind of mute appealing anguish — 
struck Karl forcibly as she looked at 
him. In the sensation of freedom and 
of safety brought by the detective’s 
absence, Karl actually pulled up. 

‘‘ Will you pardon me, Lucy, if I 
leave you for one moment. I think 
Ann Hopley wants to speak to me.’’ 

He lea[)ed out of the little low chaise, 
leaving the reins to Lucy. Her fa<‘e 
was turning scarlet: of all the insults 
he had thrust upon her, this seemed 
the greatest. To pull up at that very 
gate, when she was in the carriage! 
Mr. Smith and his churchwarden pipe 
were enjoying themselves as usual at 
Clematis Cottage, looking out on the 
world in general, and no doubt (as Lu- 
cjMudignantly felt) making his private 
com ments. 

“ He is ver}^ ill again, sir,” were the 
few whispered words of Ann Hopley. 

Can you come in? I am not sure 
but it will be for death.” 

Almost immediately,” returned 
Karl ; and he stepped back to the 
chaise just in time. Lucy was about 
to try her hand at driving, to make 
her escape from him and the miserable 
situation. 

Since the night of the baby’s death, 
Karl and his wife had lived a more es- 
tranged life than ever. Lucy avoided 
him continuall3^ When he spoke to her, 
she would not answer beyond a mono- 
syllable, As to any chance of expla- 
nation on an}" subject, there was none. 
It is true he did not attempt any: and 
if he had, she would have waived him 
away and refused to listen to it. This 
day was the first for some tinie that 
she had‘'coiiseiited to let him drive her 
out. 


It had happened on their return. 
Lucy’s eminentl}" ungracious manner 
as he took his seat again would have 
stopped his speaking, even if he had 
had a mind to speak : but he was deep 
in anxious thought. The resentful 
way in wliich she had from the first 
taken up the affair of his unfortunate 
brother, seemed to tie his tongue al- 
ways. He drove in; stood to help her 
out — or would have helped, but that 
slie swept by without touching him — ■ 
left the pony to the waiting groom; 
and walked back to tlie Maze. 

Adam was in one of his attacks of 
pain. Hay, of agony. It could be 
called nothing less. It was not, how- 
ever, for death : the sharpness of the 
paroxysm with its attendant signs ha{l 
misled Ann Hopley. Hose looked 
scarcely less ill than her husband. 
Her most grievous position was telling 
upon her. Her little child dead ; her 
husband apparentl}" dying; danger 
and dread of another sort on all sides. 
More like a shadow was she now than 
a living woman. 

“Do you know what I have been 
thinking, Kose ? ” said Karl when his 
brother had revived. “ That we might 
trust Moore. You hear, Adam ? I 
think he might be trusted.” 

“ Trusted for what ? ” returned 
Adam, not in his sometimes firm voice, 
but in one verv weak and faint. He 
was lying on the sofa. Hose sat at 
the end of it ; Karl was in a chair at 
the side. 

“ To see 3"ou. To liear wlio 3'ou are. 

I cannot help believing that he would 
be as true as steel. Moore is one of 
those men, as it seems to me, that we 
might trust our lives with.” 

“ It won’t do to run risks, old fellow. 

I do not want to be captured in my 
last liours.” 

Karl believed there would be no 
risk. Mr. Moore was a trul}" good 
man; sensible and benevolent. The 
mure he dwelt on the idea, the surer 
grevv his conviction that the surgeon 
might be trusted. liose, who was al- 
most passive in her distress, confessed 
she liked him. Both he and his sister 
gave her the imj)ression of being, as 
Karl worded it, true as steel. Ana 


NEWS FOR MR. T ATT ON. 


251 


Hopley was in favor of it too ; she 
put the case with much ingenuity. 

^‘Sir, I should tliink there\s not a 
doctor in the world — at least one wor- 
thy the name — who would not keep 
such a secret, confided to him of 
necessit}’, even if he were a bad man. 
And Mr. iMoore’s a good one.” 

And the decision was made. Karl 
was to feel his way to the confidence. 
He would sound the surgeon first, and 
act accord ingl3\ 

“Not that it much signifies either 
way,” cried Sir Adam, his careless 
manner reviving as his strength and 
spirits returned. “ Die I soon must. [ 
suppose, now: but I’d rather die in 
m,y bed here than on a pallet in a cell. 
So Karlo, old friend, if \mu like to see 
what Moore’s made of, do so.” 

“ I wish it had occurred to me be- 
before,” cried Karl. “ Hut indeed, the 
outer dangers have been so iinminent 
as to drive other fears away.” 

“It will never matter, bon frere.' I 
don’t suppose all the advice in the 
kingdom could have saved me. What 
is to be, will be.” 

“ Master,” put in Ann Hople}^, 
“ whereas the good of your taking up 
a gloomy view of it all at once ? 
That's not the way to get well.” 

“ Gloomy ! not a bit of it,” cried 
Sir Adam in a voice as cheery as a 
lark’s on a ‘summer morning. “ Heav- 
en is more to be desired than Portland 
Prison, Ann.” 

So Karl went forth carrying his 
mission. In his heart he still trem- 
bled at it. The interests involved 
were so immense; the stake was so 
heavy for his unfortunate brother. In 
his extreme caution, he did not care to 
be seen going to the surgeon’s house, 
but sent a note to ask him to call at 
tile Court. 

It was the dusk of the evening 
when Mr. Moore arrived. He was 
shown in to Sir Karl in his owi^room. 
Giles was appearing with two wax 
lights in massive silver candlesticks, 
but his master motioned them away. 

“ I can say what 1 have to say bet- 
ter by this light than in a glare,” he 
observed to the doctor: perhaps as an 


opening preliminary; or intimation 
that the subject of the interview was 
not a pleasant one. And Giles shut 
them in alone. Karl sat sideways to 
the table, his elbow leaning on it; the 
doctor facing him with his back to the 
window. 

“ Mr. Moore,” began Karl, after a 
pause of embarrassment, “did it ever 
occur to 3"ou to have a secret confided 
! to vour keeping, involving life or 
death ? ” 

Mr. Moore paused in his turn. The 
question no doubt caused him surprise. 
He took it — the “ life or death ” — to 
be put in a professional point of view. 
A suspicion came over him that he 
w'as about to be consulted for some 
malady connected with the (evident) 
fading away of Lady Andinniau. 

“I do not suppose. Sir Karl, there 
is a single disease that flesh is heir to, 
whether secret or open, but what I 
have been consulted upon in my time.” 

“Not disease,” returned Karl has- 
til}", finding he was misunderstood. 
“ I meant a real, actual secret. A 
dangerous secret, involving life or 
death to the individual concerned, ac- 
cording as others should hold it sacred 
or betray it.” 

A longer pause yet. Mr. Moore 
staring at Karl through the room’s 
twilight. 

“ You must speak more plainl}^. Sir 
Karl, if you wish me to understand.” 
And Karl continued thoughtfully, 
weighing every word, as he spoke it, 
that it might not harm his brother. 

“The case is this, Mr. i\Ioore. I 
hold in my keeping a dangerous secret. 
It concerns a — a friend: a gentleman 
who has managed to put himself in 
peril of the law. For the present he 
is evading the law ; keeping himself, 
in fact, concealed alike from enemies 
and friends, with the exception of one 
or two who are — I may^ say — helping 
to screen him. If there were a ne(*es- 
sity for my wishing to confide this se- 
cret to you, would you undertake to 
keep it sacred ? or should you consider 
it lay in your duty as a conscientious 
man, to betray it ? ” 

“ Goodness bless me, no,” cried the 


2v2 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


doctor.. 1 nm not croinc: to hotrnv 
people : it's not in iny line. busi- 

ness is to heal their sickness. You 
need not fear me. It is a case of debt, 
I suppose, Sir Karl ? ’’ 

Karl looked at him for a moment 
steadily. And if it were not a case 
of debt but of crime, ^loore ? What 
then ? 

‘^Just the same. Betraying 

fellow men, whether smartinij: under 
the ban of perplexity or of sin, does 
not rest in my duty, I say. I am not 
a detective officer. By the way, per- 
haps tliat other detective — who turns 
out to be named Tatton and to belong 
to Scotland Yard — may have been 
down here looking after the very man.’’ 

!^^r. ^Moore spoke lightlv. Not a 
suspicion rested upon him that the sad 
and worn gentleman before him held 
any solemn or personal interest in this. 
Karl resumed, his voice insensiblj^ tak- 
ing a lower tone. 

“An individual is lying in conceal- 
ment, as I have described. His 
offence was not against you or against 
me : therefore, as you observe, and as 
I judge, it does not lie even in our 
duty to denounce him. I am hel|)ing 
to screen him. I want you to under- 
take to do the same when you shall 
know who it is.” 

“ I’ll undertake it with all my heart, 
Sir Karl. You have some motive for 
coi'.liding the matter to me.” 

“ The motive arises out of necessity. 
He is grievously ill ; in urgent need 
of medical care. I fear his days are 
alread}^ numbered : and in that fact 
lies a greater obligation for us to obey 
the dictates of humanity.” 

“ I see. You want me to visit him 
and to do what I can for him. I am 
ready and willing.” 

“ He is — mind, I shall shock you — 
a convicted felon.” 

“ Well ' — he has a body to be tend- 
ed and a soul to be saved,” replied the 
surgeon, curiously impre'^sed with the 
bush of gravity that had stolen over 
the interview. “ I will do my best for 
him, Sir Karl.” 

“ And guard his secret ? ” 

“ I will. Here’s my hand upon it. 


What would my Maker say to my of- 
fences at the Last Day, I womier, if I 
could usurp his functions and deliver 
up to vengeance my fellow man ? ” 

“ I ma\^ trust you, then.” 

“You ma 3 \ I perceive you are 
over anxious. Sir Karl. What more 
assurance can I give you ? You may 
trust me as you trust yourself. By no 
incautious word or action of mine shall 
! his peril be increased or harm come 
nigh him : naj*, I will avert it from 
him if I can. And now — who is he ? 
The sick man at the iMaze — to whom 
Dr. Cavendish was called? Taking 
one thing with another, that Maze has 
been a bit of a puzzle in my mind 
lately.” 

“ The same.” 

“ Ay. B>etween ourselves, I was as 
sure as gold that some one was there. 
Is it Mr. Grey? The young lady’s 
husband ; the dead bab^^’s father?” 

“Just so. But he is not Mr. 
Grey.” 

“ Who is lie, then ? ” 

Karl glanced nround him, as though 
he feared the very walls might contain 
eavesdroppers. Mr. Moore saw his 
dread. 

“It is a most dangerous secret,” 
whisj)ered Karl with agitation. 
“ You will keep it with your whole 
heart and life ? ” 

“ Once more, I will. I will. You 
cannot doubt me. Who is it ? ” 

“ My brother. Sir Adam Andiu- 
nian.” 

T1 le doctor leaped to his feet. Per- 
haps he had a doubt of Karl’s sanity. 
He himself, had assisted to ]i\y Sir 
Adam in his grave. 

“Hush!” said Karl. “No noise. 
It is indeed my most unfortunate 
brother.” 

“ Did he come to life again ? — Did 
Sir Adam come to life again?” reiter- 
ated the wondering surgeon in his per- 
plexity. 

“ He did not die.” 

They went together to the Maze 
after ^ (lark, Karl letting the doctor in 
with his own key. The whole hisrory 
had been revealed to him. Nothing 


MRS. CLEEYE AT FAULT. 


253 


was kept back, save a small matter or 
two connected with the means of Sir 
Adam’s dail}^ concealment : of these 
no living soul without the Maze was 
cognisant, save three: Karl, Hewitt, 
and Smith the agent. Mr. Moore was 
entrusted with it later, but not at first. 
During tlie life time of a medical man it 
falls to his lot to hear some curious 
family secrets, as it had to Mr. Moore: 
but he had never met with one half so 
strange and romantic as this. 

Sir Adam had dismissed the signs 
of his illness, and — it will hardly be 
credited — attired himself in his black 
evening dress. With the departure of 
]\Ir. Tatton, old habits resumed their 
sway, with all their surrounding incau- 
tion. Mr Moore saw the same tall, 
fine man, with the white and even 
teeth, that he had caught the transient 
glimpse of in the uncertain twilight 
some weeks before. The same, but 
with a difference : for the face was 
shrunken now, little more than half 
the size it had been then. In the past 
week or two he had changed rapidly. 
He met them when they entered: it 
was in the upstairs sitting-room: 
standing at the door, erect, his head 
thrown back. IVIr. Moore put out his 
hand : but the other did not take it. 

Do you know all, sir ? ’’ he asked. 
All,' Sir Adam.’^ 

And you are not my enemy ? ’’ 
Your true friend, Sir Adam. Nev- 
er a truer one shall be about you 
than 

Their hands met then. But I am | 
not Sir Adam here, 3’ou know ; I am 
Mr. Gre3^ Ah, doctor, what a life it 
has been ! ” 

A life that has done its best to kill 
him, thought the doctor as he sat down. 

Wh3' (lid 3mu not call me in before ? 
he asked. 

“ Well, we were afraid. Y^ou would 
be afraid of eveiybody if 3mu were in m3" 
place and position. Besides, this dis- 
ease, whatever it may turn out to be, has 
, developed itself so rapidl3" that but lit- 
tle time seems to have been lost. I do 
not see how 3"ou will come in now, if 
it is to be a (daily visit, without excit- 
ing the curiosity of the neighborhood.’^ 


Oh nonsense,” said the shrgeon, 

IMrs. Gre3" has a renewal of illness 
and I come in to see her, the curious 
neighbors will understand if they are 
exacting upon the point. Or old Hop^. 
ley your gardener. I’m sure his rheu- 
matism must need a doctor sometimes.” 

Sir Adam laughed. “ Hopley will 
do best,” he said. “ And then 3^011 
know, doctor, if — if the worst comes to 
the worst ; that is the worst so far as 
sickness is concerned, I can be carried 
out- as Hople3".” 

‘‘What do you think of him, Mr. 
Moore,” enquired Karl, gravel3q when 
the interview was over. 

“ I will tell 3mu more about it when 
I liave seen more of him,” was the 
surgeon’s answer. But his face and 
tone both assumed, or seemed to Karl 
to assume, an ominous shade as he 
gave it. 

# 

CHAPTER XXXYIII. 

MRS. CLEEVE AT FAULT. 

Mrs. Cleeve was at Boxwood. She 
had been staying in London with l)er 
sister, Lad3" Southell, and took the op- 
portunit3’ to come down to see her 
daughter. Lucy’s appearance startled 
her. As is well known, we are slow 
to discern an)" personal change either 
for the better or the worse in those 
with whom we live in daily inteix^ourse : 
it requires an absence of days or weeks, 
as the case may be, to ])erceive it in all 
its naked realit3". Mrs. Cleeve saw 
what none around Luc3" had seen — at 
least to the extent — and it shocked and 
alarmed her. The face was a sad, 
drawn face ; dark circles encircled the 
sweet brown e3"es ; the whole air and 
bearing were utterly spiritless. 

“ What can be the matter with 3’ou, 
m3" dear?” questioned Tilrs. Cleeve, 
seizing on the first opportunit3" that 
the)" were alone together. 

“The matter with me, mamma!” 
returned Luc)^ making believe not to 
understand why the question should be 
put: though her face flushed to hectic. 
“ Nothing is the matter with me.” 


254 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


There most certainly is, Lucy; 
witli your healtli or with 3'our miiul. 
You could not he as you are or look as 
you do unless there were.’’ 

suffered a i^reat deal from the 
heat,’’ said poor Lucy. 

jM}’ dear — you are suffering from 
something else; and I think you should 
enlighten me as to its nature. After 
that fever even ^mu did not look as you 
are looking now.’’ 

But not an iota of acknowledgment 
from her daughter could Mrs. Cleeve 
obtain. Lucy would not admit that 
aught was amiss in an\" way; at least, 
that she was conscious of it. Mrs. 
Cleeve appealed to IMiss Blake. 

But that 3mung lady, absorbed by 
her own pursuits and interests; by the 
Iteverend Mr. Cattacornb and the du- 
ties at St. Jerome’s, had really not been 
observant of Lucy’s fading face. She 
could be regardful enough in a con- 
temptuous sort of way of Sir Karl’s 
delinquencies and of what she looked 
upon as his wife’s blind infatuation; 
she did not omit to note the signs of 1 
trouble and care too evidently a[)par- 
ent in him, and which she set down as 
the result of an uneasy conscience : 
but she had failed to note them in 
Lucy. One cause of this perhaps was, 
that in lier presence Luc}" invariably 
put on an air of lightness, not to sa}^ 
^liet^’ ; and Miss Blake was rarely at 
^pme, except at meals; if she did get 
an hour there, she was up to the ears 
in silks and church embroidery. What 
with JMatins and Ves[)ors and other 
daily engagements at St. Jerome’s; 
what with looking after St. Jerome’s 
pastors ; what with keeping the young 
fr}" in order, iiududing Tom Bej^p, and 
seeing to the spiritual interests of their 
mothers, iMiss Blake had so much on 
her hands that it was no wonder she 
was not very observant of Luc}'. 

I do not think there is anything 
particular the matter with Lucy,” was 
the answer she made to IMrs. Cleeve. 

You must see how ill she looks, 
Theresa.” 

She is not ill. At least, that I 
know of. She eats her dinner, and 
dresses, and goes out, and lias company 


at home. I really had not obseryed 
that she. was looking ill.” 

‘‘ She talks of the heat,” continued 
Mrs. Cleeve, ‘‘ but that is all nonsense. 
Extreme heat may make one thin, but 
it cannot make them sad or spiritless.” 

Lucy is neither sad nor spiritless — 
that I have noticed.” 

“ Perhaps 3’ou have not noticed, 
Theresa. You liave so many out-of- 
door pursuits, 3’ou know. I suppose,” 
contiiiued Mrs. Cleeve witli some hesi- 
tation, and lowering her voice to a con- 
fidential tone as she put the question. 

I suppose there is nothing wrong be- 
tween her and her husband ?” 

‘•Wrong in what way, do you 
mean ?” rejoined Miss Blake. 

“ Any misunderstanding, or unplea- 
santness ? ” 

“ I should say returned Miss 

Blake with some acritnony. “ It is 
rather the other way. Lucy is blindly, 
absurdly infatuated with Sir Karl. 
If lie boxed lier on the one ear she 
would only offer him the other.” 

“ It cannot be tliat, then,” sighed 
j\Irs. Cleeve. “ I onl3" thought of it be- 
cause there w<ts nothing else I could 
think of. For I cannot help fancying, 
Theresa, that the malady is on her 
spirits more than on her health. I — I 
wonder whether that ague fever left 
unsuspected consequences bel.iind it 
that are developing themselves now?” 

Theresa, her attention given to the 
employment in her hand — a cross she 
was working in gold 4 ]iread to adorn 
some part or other .of Mr. Cattacomb’s 
canonicals — a great deal more than it 
was given to the conversation, allowed 
the doubt to pass undiscussed. Mrs. 
Cleev^. had alwa3^s been accustomed to 
worry herself over Luc3" : Theresa siq)- 
posed it was the habit of mothers to dt^ 
so who had onl3’ one daughter. So the 
subject of Lucy's looks dropped for the 
time. 

‘‘ What is that for?” resumed jMrs. 
Cleeve, directing lier attention to the 
small gold cords. 

“This? oh, a little ornament I am 
making. Please don’t touch it, Mrs. 
Cleeve, or you will entangle tiie 
threads.” 


MRS. CLEEYE AT FAULT. 


255 


Th us rebuked, Mrs. Cleeve sat for 
BOiue moments in silence, inhaling the 
fresh air through the open window, and 
the perfume of the late flowers. The 
mignonette, in its large clusters, seemed 
as though it intended to bloom on un- 
til winter. 

Theresa, how much longer do 3’ou 
intend to remain here?” she sudden!}" 
asked. Your staj" has been a verj" 
long one.” 

• Tlieresa was aware of that. She 
was slightl}" suspicious that Sir Karl 
and his wife had begun to think the 
same thing, though in their courtes}" 
they were not likely to let it appear. 
Ill truth, the matter was causing lier 
some little reflection : for she would 
willingly have made the Court lier per- 
manent home. Wiiile Mr. Cattacomb 
remained at St. Jerome’s, she should 
ri'main. It might have been some- 
what of a mistake to institute St. Je- 
romoks and to bring Mr. Cattacomb to 
it: ]\Iiss Blake could recognize it now: 
but as that step had been taken, she 
could only abide b}" it. 

‘‘ I am not likely to leave at present, 
she replied. ‘^It would be very dull 
for Lucy to be here without me. As 
the winter weather comes on, my out-of- 
door duties will be somewhat curtailed, 
and I shall be able to give her more of 
my time. Lucy would be lost b}" her- 
self, Mrs. Cleeve. She was alwaj^s 
ratlier given to jnoping.” 

Yes. There was no doubt Lucy did 
“ mope.” Mrs. Cleeve sighed deeply. 
A cloud lay on Fox wood Court, and she 
couhi not trace out its source. 

The cloud she thought, lay on Sir 
Karl as well as on Lucy. That is, his 
sadness, his weary face, and his evident 
preoccupation were quite as visible to 
Mrs. Cleeve as were her daughter’s. 
But for Theresa’s emphatic assurance 
to the contrary, she might still have 
doubted whether the cloud did not lie 
between them. She was a single- 
minded, kind-hearted, sirnple-natured 
lady, not given to think ill, or to look 
out for it : but in this case she did try 
to observe and notice. She could not 
help seeing how seldom Karl and his 
wife were together. Karl would drive 


Lucy out occasionallv ; but as a rule 
the}" saw but little of him. He was 
generally [)resent at meals, and always 
sociable and kind, and he would come 
into the drawing-room when visitors 
called, if at home; spending his other 
time chiefly in his own room and in 
walking out alone. Late in the eve- 
nings he would'usually be absent : Mrs. 
Cleeve noticed that. She had seen 
him walk across the lawn in the gloom 
to one of the little gates ; she had seen 
him come in again after an hour or 
two’s interval ; and she wondered 
where he went to. 

Tlie truth was, Karl was obliged to 
go to the Maze more frequently than 
he used to go, or than was at all pru- 
dent. Mr. Moore had not yet pro- 
nounced the fatal fiat on Sir Adam 
that Dr.' Cavendish liad — doubtfully — 
imparted to Mr. Detective Tatton ; but 
he concealed from none of them that 
the case was one of extreme gravity: 
ay, and of danger. That Sir Adam 
grew more attenuated might be seen 
almost daily, he himself assumed that 
he had but a short span of life left ; 
and he would not allow Karl to be for 
one single evening absent. Sometimes 
in the day Karl also went there. The 
conviction that Adam would not be long 
among them, lay on every heart more 
or less : and it will be readily under- 
stood that Karl should sacrifice some- 
what of caution to be with him while 
he might. 

“ Karlo, brother mine, you’ll come 
over to-morrow morning,” Sir Adam 
would say when their hands met for 
the evening farewell — and he would 
keep the hand until the answer should 
be given. 

“ If I can, Adam.” 

“ That wont do. You must. Prom- 
ise.” 

I will, then. I will if I can do it 
with safety.” 

And of course he had to go. Under 
other and happier circumstances, he 
would never have quitted the invalid 
night or day. 

The lack of what Karl considered 
safety ” as he spoke it in his answer, 
would have consisted in the highway 


256 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


before the ^Maze gates being peopled ; 
and in his being seen to enter. It was 
so unfrequented a road tliat not a soul 
would pass up or down for a quarter of 
an hour together; nay, for half one; 
and, as a rule, Ivarl was safe. But he 
exercised his precautions always. He 
wouhl saunter towards the gate as 
tiiough merely taking a stroll on the 
shady side path ; and then, the coast 
being clear, ring — for by day-time he 
never used his own key. llis ears and 
eyes alike on the alert ; he, if by chance 
some solitary passenger should appear, 
would saunter over to Mr. Smith’s, and 
talk to him: and then slip in when 
the intruder should have passed, Ann 
Hopley having the door by that time 
ready to open. Karl would use the 
same precaution coming out : tpid hith- 
erto had escaped observation. 

It was not always to be so. 

The time passed on : Sir Adam fluc- 
tuating; some da3’s fearfully ill, some 
days seeming well and hearty; and 
j\Irs. Cleeve continuing at Fox wood, 
for she could not bear to leave Lucy. 

Karl went across one morning soon 
after breakfast. His brother had been 
very ill indeed the evening before ; so 
ill that Karl had brought most unpleas- 
ant thoughts away with him. He was 
ringing at the gate when it sudilenly 
opened : Ann Hopley was letting Mr. 
]\Ioore out. 

So far as his visits went there had 
been no trouble. Fox wood had taken 
care to inform itself as to what patient 
at the Maze it was that Mr. Moore was 
again in regular attendance upon, and 
found it to be HopU\y the gardener. The 
old man had caught an attack of rheu- 
matic fever, or some other affection con- 
nected with age and knee joints — said 
the Miss Moores to the rest of the fair 
flock going to and from St. Jerome’s. 
There was neither interest nor romance 
attaching to the poor old man : so the 
doctor was at liberty to pass in and 
out at will without the slightest thought 
being given to it. In the doctor’s dav' 
bo(dv the patient was entered as James 
Hople}^, Mrs. Grey’s servant.” The 
doctor’s assistant, a fashionable young 
man from London, who wore an eye 
glass stuck in his eye, could have the 


pleasure of reading it ten times a clay 
if he chose. 

“ How is he ? ” asked Karl of Mr. 
Moore. 

“Oh better this morning— as I ex- 
pected he would be,’’ was the surgeon’s 
answer. “ But I have ordered him to 
lie in bed for the day. This time I 
think he will obey me, for he feels un- 
commonly weak.” 

“ Every fresh attack makes him 
weaker,” observed Karl. 

“ Why of course it does : it must do 
so. I don’t half like the responsibility 
that lies on me,” continued the di^ctor. 
“ We ought to have another opinion.” 

“ How can it be had ?” remonstrat- 
ed Karl. p 

“ There it is — how. I wish he could 
be in London under the constant care 
of one of its practical men.” 

“ We wish this, and wish the other, 
Mr. Moore,” said Karl sadly, “ and you 
know how impossible it is for us to do 
more than we are doing. Answer me 
truly — for I think 3^11 can answer. 
Would there be a fair chance of his re- 
cover3’ if he had other advice than 
yours ? Would there be anv" better 
chance of it ? ” 

“ Honestl3^ speaking I do not think 
there would. I believe I am doing for 
him all that can be done.” 

Ann Hople3^ drew the gate open 
again, and the doctor went out. Karl 
passed on through the lab3’rinth. 

Sir Adam liked to use his own will 
in all respects, and it was the first time 
he had made even a semblance of obe3’- 
ing Mr. Moore’s orders of taking rest 
by day time. He looked ver3Mll. The 
once handsome face seemed shrunk to 
nothing; the short hair was getting to 
look almost white; the grey-blue 
eyes, beautiful as Karl’s, had astrange- 
j 13^ wistful, patient look in them. 

“ I thought 3mu would be here, Kar- 
lo. I have wuuited you ever since day- 
light.” 

“ Are you feeling better, Adam ? 
Free from pain ? ” 

. “ Much better. Quite free from it.” 

“ Moore has been sa3Mng he washes 
w'e could get you to London, that we 
might have more skilled advice.” 

What nonsense!” cried Adam. 


MRS. GLEE YE AT FAULT. 


if any advice could really avail 
me ! Pie knows it would not. Did it 
avail iny father, Karl 

Karl remained silent. There was 
no answer he could make. 

Sit down, old fellow, and tell me all 
the news. Got a paper with you ? 

The pa})ers have not come yet,’^ 
replied Karl, as he drew a chair to the 
bedside. 

“ Slow coaches people are in this 
world ! I shall get up presently.’’ 

Ko, Adam, not to-day. Moore says 
you must not.” 

Good old man I he is slow too. But 
he won’t keep me in bed, Karl, when I 
choose to quit it. Why should I not 
get up ? ” continued Sir Adam, his 
voice taking a tone of its old defiance. 

I am the best judge of my own 
strength. If I lay liere for a month of 
Sundays, Karl, it would riot add a day 
to my life.” 

Perhaps that was true. At any rate, 
Adam was one whom it was of no use 
to urge one way or the other. 

What’s the old adage, Karlo ? — ^ a 
short life and a merry one.’ Mine 
has not been very merry of late, has 
it ? ” 

‘‘ I wish we could get jmu well, 
Adam.” 

‘‘Do you? We are told, you know, 
that all things as they fall are for the 
best. The world would say, I expect, 
that this is. I wonder sometimes, 
though, how soon or how late the ene- 
my would have shown itself had my 
life continued smooth as yours is.” 

Smooth as yours is ! Tire uncon- 
scious words brought a pang to Karl’s 
heart ; they sounded so like mockery. 
Heaven alone knew the distress and 
turbulence of his. 

“ I got Moore into a cosy chat the 
other day,” resumed Sir Adam : “ the 
wife was safe away, trimming the 
plants in the greenhouse. — Rose is 
nearlv as good a gardener, as I am, 
Karl.” 

“I know she is fond of gardening.” 

“Ay, and has been amidst it for 
years, you see. Well — I led Moore on, 
saying this, and asking the other, and 
he opened his mind a bit. The disease 
16 


was in me always, he thinks, Karl, and 
must liave come out sooner or later. It 
was only a question of time. I have 
said so myself of late. But I did not 
look to follow the little olive branch 
quite so quickly.” 

“ We may keep you here a 
long while yet, Adam. It is still pos- 
sible, I hope, we may keep you for 
good. Moore has not said to the con- 
trary.” 

“ You think he knows it, though.” 

Karl was really not sure. His own 
opinion was this — that Adam had less 
chance of getting well, where he was, 
than he would have had under those of 
the London faculty, wliose specialty 
embraced that class of disease. 

“ Shall you put on mourning for me, 
old fellow ? It will be a risk, won’t it ? 
I shan’t care to be held up to the world 
as Adam Andinnian, dead, any more 
than I do, alive. You'll not care to 
sajq either, this black coat is worn 
for that brother of mine : the mauvais 
sujet who set the world all agog with 
his scandal.” 

What kind of a mood was Sir Adam 
in this morning ? Karl’s grave eyes 
questioned it. One of real, light, care- 
less mockery ? — or was it an underly- 
ing current of sadness and regret mak- 
ing itself too uneasily felt in his heart. 

“Don’t, Adam. It jars on every 
chord and pulse. You and I have 
cause to be at least more sober than 
other men.” 

“ What have I said ? ” cried Sir Ad- 
am, half laughing. “ That ^mu may 
have to put on mourning for me. It is 
in the nature of things that the elder 
should go before the younger : he’d not 
be so wanting in good manners as to 
stay to go last. You look well in black 
too, Karl ; men with such faces as 
yours always do.” 

“ I hope it will be a long while be- 
fore I have to wear it,” sighed Karl, 
perceiving how hopeless it was to 
change his brother’s humor. 

“ I’d bet Foxwood with you that it 
will be before Cliristmas.” 

“ Adam, is it right to speak in this 
way ? ” 

“ Is it particularly wrong ? ” 


258 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


Why do you do it ? 

‘^Need of change, Irsuppose. I have 
had a solemn night of it, old fellow ; 
and I hardly know yet whether I was 
asleep or awake. It was somewhat of 
both, I expect : but I thought I was 
amidst the angels. I can see them now 
as they looked : a whole crowd of them, 
gathered about my bed. And Karlo — 
when a man begins to dream of angels, 
and not to be able to decide afterwards 
whether it be a dream or a shadowed 
reality, it is a pretty sure sign, T take 
it, that no great time will elapse be- 
fore he is with them.” 

Before Karl left, Adnm had talked 
himself into a doze. With his worn 
and haggard face turned to the wall, he 
slept as peacefully as a child. Karl stole 
away and went into the greenhouse. 
Bose was there amid the plants, the 
sunlight, shining on her beautiful hair, 
turned it into threads of gold. She 
lifted her white face, with its sad ex- 
pression. 

1 knew you were with him, Karl, 
so 1 did not come in. Don’t you think 
lie looks very ill this morning ? ” 

Yes, he certainly does. He is 
asleep now.” 

Asleep ! And in the day-time !” 

He had a very bad night, I fancy.” 

Do 3 mu think there’s hope, Karl ? ” 
she piteously asked — almost as if all 
hope had left herself 

I don’t know, Bose. Mr. Moore 
lias not told me there is none.” 

^^Pei^iaps it is that he will not say,” 
she rejoined, resting her elbow on the 
green steps amid the plants, and her 
cheek on her hand. I seem to see it, 
Karl ; to see what is coming. Indeed 
you might tell me the truth. I shall 
not feel it quite so much as I should 
had our circumstances been happier.” 

I have told you as fiir as I know, 
Bose.” 

There’s my little baby gone ; there’s 
my husband going: al my treasures 
will be in the better world. I shall 
have nothing ‘to do but live on for and 
look forward to the time wdien I may 
go to them. Six months ago, Karl, had 
I known Adam must die, I think the 
grief would have killed me. But the 
apprehension we have undergone the 


last few weeks — Adam’s dread and my 
awful fear for him, has gone a great 
way to reconcile me. I see — and I 
think he sees — that death would not 
be the worst calamity. Better for him 
to be at rest than live in that frightful 
peril night and day ; each moment as 
it passes one of living agony, lest the 
next should bring the warders of Port- 
land Island to retake him. No won- 
der it is wearing him out.” 

Karl went away echoing the last 
sentence ; every word she had spoken 
leaving its echo of pain on his heart. 
No : it was no wonder that fatal illness 
had seized on Adam Andinnian before 
its time. 

Well, on this day Karl was not to 
escape unnoticed so easily. Ann Hop- 
ley unlocked the gaJte, and then both 
of them stood listening according to 
custom. Not a sound broke the still- 
ness, save the furious chirping some- 
where of two quarrelsome sparrows ; 
not a step could be heard awaking the 
echoes of the ground. Ann Hopley 
drew back the half of the gate, and 
Karl went forth. 

Went forth to find himself, so to 
say, in the very arms of Mrs. Cleeve 
and Miss Blake. They were standing 
quite still (which fact accounted for no 
footsteps being heard) gazing at these 
same two fighting birds in the hedge. 
W^hat with Karl’s naturally nervous 
organization, and what with the dread 
secret he had just left, every drop of 
blood went out of his face. But he 
did not lose his presence of mind. 

Looking on at a fight, Mrs. 
Cleeve,” he exclaimed in a light tone. 
“ Birds have their hasty passions as 
well as men, you see. You wicked 
combatants! let one another’s heads 
alone. They’ll not look any the bet- 
ter without feathers.” 

One of the noisy birds, as if in 
obedience, flew away to a distant tree. 
The other followed it. Karl stayed 
talking for a minute with the ladies, 
lieard that they had come out for a 
little stroll, and then he went on to his 
house. Mrs. Cleeve, as she continued 
her way, glanced inquisitively at the 
iron gate in passing. 

Do the same people live there still, 


MRS. CLEEVE AT FAULT. 


259 


Theresa ? Let me see — a Mrs. Grey, 
was it not ? ’’ 

Oh yes, she lives there/^ slighting- 
ly returned Miss Blake. She had a 
baby at the close of summer, but it 
died.’’ 

A baby ! Why, she was a young 
widow! Stay — no — what was it? — 
oh, her husband was abroad. Yes, I 
remember now. Has he come home 
yet ? ” 

As much as he ever will come, I 
expect,” observed Miss Blake. The 
girl has just as much a husband as I 
have, Mrs. Cleeve.” 

Why what is it that you would im- 
ply ? ” cried Mrs. Cleeve, struck with 
the words and the tone. 

I once, quite accidentally, heard her 
sing ‘When lovely woman stoops to 
folly ’ you know the song. It was, in 
one sense of the word, sung in char- 
acter.” 

“ Oh dear ! ” cried Mrs. Cleeve. 
‘‘But — but what does Sir Karl do 
there ? ” 

“ Sir Karl ? Oh — he is her land- 
lord.” 

The taunting kind of way, in which 
Miss Blake said it, turned Miss 
Cleeve’s delicate cheeks to a rosy red. 
All kinds of unpleasant thoughts be- 
gan crowding into her mind. 

“ Theresa, what do you mean ? ” she 
asked, her voice dropping with its own 
dread. “ Have ^mu any meaning ? ” 

And the chances were — taking into 
consideration the love of gossip and of 
scandal so inherent in a woman — that 
Theresa Blnke would there and then 
have disclosed that she had a meaning 
and what the meaning was, but in that 
self-same moment she happened to 
turn her eyes on Mr. Smith the agent.- 
He was leaning over his garden gate, 
playing with a bunch of late roses ; 
and he gravely lifted his hat to Miss 
Blake as she looked at him. 

There was something in the grave 
look, or in the sight of the man him- 
self, or in the roses, telling of summer, 
that recalled most vividly to Miss 
Blake’s mind the private conversation 
she had once held with Mr. Smitli, and 
the caution he had given her. At any 


rate, Jane Shore and the lighted taper 
and the white sheet, and all the other 
accessories, rose up before her mental 
vision as plainly as one can see into a 
mirror. The penance looked no more 
palatable to Miss Blake now than it 
had then. As well keep clear of such 
risks, great and small. She changed 
her tone. 

“ I really don’t know anything 
about the young woman, Mrs. Cleeve. 
Pray do not take up a mistaken notion. 
She is Sir Karl’s tenant, that is all.” 

“ But if she is not quite — quite cir- 
cumspect in her conduct, it must be 
rather unpleasant to have her close to 
the Court,” said Mrs. Cleeve. 

“ Oh she lives a perfectly retired 
life.” 

“ She is very pretty, T think ?” 

“ Beautiful as an angel.” 

Kothing more passed. The two 
sparrows came flying to a proximate 
tree and began fighting again. But 
an uneasy impression was left on Mrs. 
Cleeve’s mind : for she could not forget 
the strongly-significant tone in which 
Miss Blake had spoken, and its too 
sudden change to cautious indififer- 
ence. 

Karl was pacing one of the broad 
paths that evening in the grounds, 
when he found himself joined by Mrs. 
Cleeve. She had thrown a warm 
shawl over her gray silk dress. He 
gave her his arm. The shadows were 
deepening : the evening star was al- 
ready twinkling in the sky. 

“ I want to tell you of a little plan 
I have formed. Sir Karl, and get your 
assent to it. It cannot have escaped 
your notice that Lucy is looking very 
ill.” 

“ I have seen it for some time,” he 
answered. 

“ And I should have spoken to you 
of it before,” resumed Mrs. Cleeve, 
“only that Lucy herself seems so 
much annnoyed when I allude to it, 
telling me that nothing is the matter 
with her and begging me not to ‘ take 
up fancies.’ Are you aware of any- 
thing being wrong with her general 
health?” 

“Ko I am not; there is nothing 


260 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


wron." witli it that I know of,” return- 
ed Karl, unpleasantly conscious that 
he was not likely to know more about 
his wife’s health than any other of the 
Court’s inmates. 

“Well, what I wish to do is this: 
to take Lucy to town with me when I 
leave, and let some physician see her.” 

“ But you are not leaving us yet ? ” 

“Not just yet, perhaps; but when 
I do go. In fact, I really must take 
her, I could not be easy to go back 
home, and leave Lucy looking as she 
is, without s. i-' good medical opinion. 
Have you i. any' objection to 
this ? ” 

“Not the slightest. T do not fancy 
any physician could do much good to 
Luc}- — she has certainly, as I believe, 
no specific disease — but I think change 
of air and scene may be of much ben- 
efit to her. I am glad that she should 
go.” 

“ Well, now that I have your per- 
mission, Sir Karl, I shall know how to 
act. Lucy has been telling me that 
she does not need a physician and will 
not see one ; and that she does not 
care to go to London. But that we 
have never had consumption in our 
family, I should fear it for Lucy.” 

Karl was silent. That Lucy had 
taken the unfortunate secret to heart 
in a strange manner, and that it was 
telling upon her most unaccountably, 
he knew. 

“It is rather ungrateful of her to 
say she does not care to go to London, 
considering that she lias never stayed 
with her aunt since that time of illness 
at Winchester,” resumed Mrs. Cleeve. 
“ Though indeed Lucy seems to have 
no energy left, and her cheerfulness 
a[)pears to me more like sham than 
reality. Lady Southell is anxious for 
her to go up with me.” 

“ Are you intending to stay again 
with Lady Southell yourself?” 

“I shall now : as long as Lucy does. 
And, armed with your authority, I 
shall insist on Lucy’s going up with 
me. I wish you would come too. Sir 
Karl : my sister would be so glad to 
see you.” 


With his unfortunate brother dying 
at the Maze, it was not possible for 
Karl to quit Boxwood. But he was 
exceeding!}" glad that Lucy should be 
absent for a time. It would leave him 
more at liberty. At least, in spirit. 
With Lucy’s intense contempt and 
hatred for the Maze and its troubles, 
Karl never went there but he was con- 
scious of feeling something like a 
schoolboy who is in mischief away 
from home. 

“I cannot leave home just now,” 
said Karl. “But you must tell Lady 
Southell that I shall be most happy to 
take a future opportunity of paying 
her a visit.” 

“ Are you busy, that you cannot 
leave ? ” 

“ My uncle Joseph’s papers are not 
arranged yet; I am anxious to get on 
with them,” he said by way of an ex- 
cuse. And in truth that, so hir, was 
so. In his mind’s terrible distress, the 
sorting of the papers had been much 
neglected. 

“ At least you will come to Town to 
fetch Lucy home.” 

“ Of course I will.” 

The affair decided, they walked the 
whole length of the walk in silence. 
Karl’s thoughts were no doubt busy : 
Mrs. Cleeve was wishing to say some- 
thing else, and did not quite know how 
to begin. 

What a nice evening it is !” cried 
Karl. “ How fair the weather con- 
tinues to be.” 

“ Yes. But the hedges are showing 
signs of winter. I noticed it particu- 
larly when I was out with Theresa this 
morning. That was the Maze, I think, 
that we saw you coming out of.” 

Karl assented. There was no help 
for it. 

“ Does the young lady live there 
alone, still ? ” 

“ She has her servants with her.” 

“ But not her husband.” 

“Mr. Grey, it is understood, spends 
a good deal of his time in traveling.” 

“Sir Karl, I think I must ask you 
plainly; I have been intending to ask 
you,” she said, taking courage, “ Is 


AT THE KED DAWN. 


261 


there any reason for supposing that 
tliis young lady is not — is not quite 
what she ouglit to be ? 

“ Why, wdiat do you mean ? re- 
turned Karl, standing still in his sur- 
prise. Are you speaking of Mrs. 
Grey ? 

‘‘It is almost impossible to avoid at- 
taching some doubt to a young and 
lovely woman, when she lives so unac- 
countably secluded a life,’’ returned 
Mrs. Cleeve, calling up the most plau- 
sible excuse she could for her suspi- 
cions. 

“The very fact i>f her keeping her- 
self so secluded ought to absolve Mrs. 
Grey from it,” said Karl warmly. “ She 
is a good and honorable lady.” 

“ You feel sure of that ? ” 

“ I am sure of it. I know it. Be- 
lieve me, dear Mrs. Cleeve, that Lucy 
herself is not more pure and innocent 
than that poor lady is,” he added, tak- 
ing Mrs. Cleeve’s hands in his earnest- 
ness, in his anxiety to convince. “ She 
has had great trouble to try her; she 
may be said to live in trouble: but 
heaven knows how good she is and how 
persistently she strives to be resigned, 
and bear.” 

Mrs. Cleeve kept the sensitive hands 
in hers; she saw how worthy of trust 
he was in his earnestness ; and every 
doubt went out of her. 

“ I am very glad to hear it. I hope 
she and you will pardon my foolish 
thoughts. You go to see her some- 
times, I believe ? ” 

“ When I think I can be of any use, 

I go. Her husband was once my dear 
friend : I go there for his sake.” 

“ Why does he not live here with 
her ? ” 

“He cannot alw’ays do just as he 
would. Just now he is in bad 
health.” 

“ And she lost her baby, T hear.” 

“ Yes. It was a great grief to both 
of them.” 

The ringing out of the diniier gong 
stopped the questioning. We may be 
assured Karl lost no time in conduct- 
ing Mrs. Cleeve to the house. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

AT THE RED DAWN. 

Foxwood was going on quietljMvith 
the approach of winter. Mrs. Cleeve 
had gone to London with her daughter; 
leaving Miss Blake to keep house at 
the Court. Some ladies, fearing the 
world’s chatter, might have objected to 
remain with so young and attractive a 
man as Sir Karl Andinnian ; Miss 
Blake was a vast deal too strong-mind- 
ed for any thought of the kind. She 
was busy as ever with St. Jerome’s and 
its offices ; but she nevertheless kept a 
tolerably keen look-out on the Maze 
and on Sir Karl’s movements as con- 
nected with it. He went there more 
than he ever used to do : by day now 
as well as by night : and she wondered 
how long the simple neighborhood 
would keep its e3^es closed to facts and 
figures, that, to her, were so offensively 
plain. 

There had been a sharpish frost in 
the night, but the glorious morning 
sun had chased its signs away. At 
midday it was shining down hotly ; and 
Karl was almost glad of the thin 
screen of leaves left in the labyrinth as 
he made his way through it. Some 
days had passed now since Adam had 
had any sharp amount of illness: he 
was wasting away rapidly, and that was 
the worst outward sign. But his will 
in these intervals of ease was indomit- 
able, and it imparted to him a ficti- 
tious strength. 

As Karl came in view of the lawn, 
he saw Rose standing by one of the 
distant beds, talking to Hopley. The 
old man was digging ; and had bent 
himself nearly’ double over his work. 
Karl crossed over, a reprimand on his 
lips. 

“ Adam, you should not. You prom- 
ised me you would not again take a 
spade or other gardening implement in 
your hand. Your strength is not equal 
to it, and it must do you harm.” 

“Just hark at him. Rose. It would 
not be Karlo if he didn’t find fault 
with me. What shall you do for some- 


262 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


body to croak at, brother mine, when 
I am gone ? 

Was it Hopley who spoke? — or was 
it Sir Adam ? The falling-in mouth 
and the speech, the crooked back, the 
tottering and swollen knees, the smock 
frock and the red comforter and the 
broad straw hat, all were Hopley^s. 
But the manner of speech and the ej^es 
too, now you came to see them as he 
looked up at Karl, were Sir Adames. 

Yes. They were one and the same. 
Poor Old Hopley, the gardener, was 
but Sir Adam in disguise. With the 
padded knees and the false hump he 
had managed to deceive the world, in- 
cluding Mr. Detective Tatton. He 
might not perhaps have so surely de- 
ceived Mr. Tatton had the latter been 
looking after Sir Adam Andinnian and 
been acquainted with his person. But 
the decrepid gardener bore no resem- 
blance to Philip Salter: and, that fact 
ascertained, it was all that concerned 
Mr. Tatton. 

It may be remembered that when 
Mrs. Andinnian was staying at Wey- 
mouth, she and her servant Ann Hop- 
ley, were in secret communication with 
one of the warders of Portland Prison : 
in point of fact they were negotiating 
with him the possibility of Sir Adam’s 
escape. This man was James Hopley ; 
a warder — as Karl had taken him to be 
— and also Ann’s husband. In the 
scuffle that took place the night of the 
escape, the man really killed was the 
other prisoner. Cole : and it was he 
who was taken to Foxwood and buried 
in its churcbj^ard. Hopley was drowned. 

At that period, and for some little 
time before it, Philip Smith was at 
Portland Prison. Not as a prisoner : 
the man had never in his life done 
aught to merit incarceration: but seek- 
ing some employment there, through 
the interest of one of the chief war- 
ders who was a friend of his — a man 
named O’Brian. From the date of 
the frauds of Philip Salter, Philip 
Smith had been — as he considered it — 
a ruined man : at any rate he was un- 
able to obtain employment. A ruined 
man must not be fastidious, and Smith 
was willing and anxious to become a 


warder if they would make him one. 
It was while he was waiting and hop- 
ing for the post, and employed some- 
times as an assistant, and thoroughly 
trusted, that the attempted escape of 
the prisoners occurred. Smith was one 
of those who put off in the boat after 
the fugitives ; the other two being 
Hopley and O’Brian. In the scuffle 
on Weymouth shore. Sir Adam was 
wounded and left for dead. O’Brian 
saw him lying there apparently dead 
and supposed him to be so. O’Brian, 
however, afterwards received a blow 
that stunned him— ^for the night was 
dark, and friends and foes fought in- 
discriminately — and Smith contrived 
to get Sir Adam away in a place of 
concealment. It is very probable that 
Smith foresaw in that moment how 
valuable a prize to him the living and 
escaped Sir Adam might become. 
O’Brian really believed him to be dead, 
and so reported him to the authorities. 
A dead man is worthless : and Sir Ad- 
am was allowed to be retained by his 
friends for interment: the beaten and 
disfigured Cole, shot in the face, being 
looked upon as Sir Adam. 

After that, the path was easy. Sir 
Adam, very badly injured, lay for many 
weeks hidden away. Smith continued 
at Portland Prison keeping his own 
counsel and unsuspected, visiting Sir 
Adam continuously at intervals. As 
soon as it was practicable for him to be 
moved, the step was ventured on. He 
was got away in safety to London and 
lay in retirement there, in a house that 
had been taken by Smith r his wife 
(formerly Bose Turner) coming up to 
join him ; and Ann Hopley, faithful to 
Sir Adam’s fortunes through all, wait- 
ing on them. She had no one else left to 
be faithful to now, poor woman. Smith 
managed everything. He had with- 
drawn himself from Portland Island, 
under the plea that he could no longer, 
in consequence of his disabled arm, as- 
pire to a wardership — for his arm had 
been damaged on that fatal night, and 
it was thought he would never have the 
full use of it again. The plea was un- 
suspiciously recognized by the prison 
authorities ; Smith retained his friend- 


AT THE RED DAWN. 


263 


ship with O’Brian, and occasionally 
corresponded with him, getting from 
him scraps of useful information now 
and then. From that time his servi- 
ces were devoted to Sir Adam. It 
was he who communicated between Sir 
Adam and his mother ; for, letters they 
did not dare to transmit. It was he 
^ who hrst disclosed to Mrs. Andinnian 
the fact that Miss Rose Turner was her 
son’s wife ; it was he who made the ar- 
rangement for Sir Adam’s taking up 
his abode at the Maze, and provided 
the disguise to arrive at Fox wood in, 
as the decrepid old husband of the ser- 
vant Ann Hople3^ To do Mr. Smith 
justice, he had fouglit against the 
scheme of coming to the Maze ; but 
Mrs. Andinnian and Adam were both 
bent upon it ; and he yielded. Adam 
and his wife had stayed in London un- 
der the name of Mr. and Mrs. Grey, 
and she retained it. 

Amidst the injuries Sir Adam re- 
ceived was one to the mouth and jaw. 
It destroyed those beautiful front teeth 
of his. After his recovery he souglit 
the service of a clever but not much 
known dentist named Rennet, went to 
the pain of having the rest of his 
teeth extracted, and an entire set of 
false ones made. Two sets, in fact. 
The journey Rose took to London, 
when Miss Blake espied her with Karl, 
was for the purpose of getting one of 
these sets of teeth repaired, Sir Adam 
having broken the spring the night be- 
fore. The teeth had to be conveyed 
personally to Mr. Rennett and fetched 
away ; for they were too cautious to 
entrust him with their address. 

And now it will be seen how Sir Ad- 
am had concealed himself at the Maze. 
In the day-time he was the toothless, 
hump-backed, infirm old Hopley, work- 
ing at his garden with enlarged knees 
and tottering steps : as soon as dusk 
came on, his false padding was thrown 
off with his smock frock and coarse 
clothes, and he was the well-bred gen- 
tleman, Sir Adam Andinnian, in eve- 
ning attire, with his white and even 
teeth. His assumed role was main- 
tained always during the day ; his 
meals were taken in the kitchen to be 
safe in case of any possible surprise, 


Ann attending upon him with all re- 
spect. The delay in admitting Nurse 
Chaffen, kept waiting once on the 
wrong side of the kitclien door, was 
caused by “ Hopley’s” taking out his 
set of teeth and putting on his broad 
brimmed hat : for it was convenient to 
assume the teeth during the sliort pe- 
riod devoted to dinner. The deafness 
was of course assumed as an additional 
precaution. Thus he had lived, in a 
state of semi-security: tending his flow- 
ers and occupied with the care of his 
garden generally, an employment that 
he loved so well. The day that Gen- 
eral Lloj^d’s party went in, Karl was 
transfixed with apprehension and amaze- 
ment to see Hopley showing liimself. 
Adam enjoyed it: it was so like him 
to brave things; and he feared no dan- 
ger from a pleasure part}^ like that. 

Well, I think that is all that is 
needed in the way of explanation ; 
and we can go on. Karl was looking 
at the digging with regretful eyes. 

You ought to be glad to see me at 
work again, Karl, instead of groaning 
over it,” cried Sir Adam. 

And so I should be, Adam, only 
that, I fear you will feel its effects un- * 
pleasantly by and b3^” 

Somebody must do it. I can’t see 
the garden quite neglected. Besides, 
if I am well enough to work there’s no 
reason why I should not. I am not 
sure, Karl, but I shall cheat you now.” 

“ Cheat me ? ” 

By getting well. What should 

you say to that ? ” 

“ Thank heaven for it : and do m\’’ 
best to get you away to a place of 
safety.” 

By George, old fellow, I don’t 

know that I shan’t. I am feeling as 
blithe as a bee. Rose, take 3murself a 
trifle further off, out of the mould.” 

He was throwing about the spade- 
fuls almost as well as he had ever 
thrown them in liis strength. Rose 

was cheated into something like hope, 
and her face for the moment lost its 
sadness. 

I wish to goodness I had a 
draught of beer,” cried Adam. 

Where’s Ann, I wonder.” 

Karl went to fetch it. Ann Hopley 


264 


VTITHIN THE MAZE. 


shook her head at the idea of hope, 
when Karl spoke of it as she gave him 
the beer. 

You never saw any person, who 
was to live on, have the look in his 
face that he has, sir/’ 

He looks fairly well to-day.’’ 

“ And so he will at times to the last, 
as it strikes me. I have had a good 
deal of experience in illness, sir. As 
to the talking about getting well — why, 
sir, you know what he is : saying this, 
and that without meaning it. There’s 
no doubt he feels pretty sure himself 
how it will be.” 

Karl sighed as he went back with 
the beer. Yes, there was no real hope. 

That same night — or rather on the 
following morning, for the dawn was 
more than glimmering — Karl in his 
bed began to dream that he w^as out in 
a shower of hail. It seemed to be 
falling with great violence : so much 
so that a sharper crash awoke him. 
Tj3nng awake for a moment and ques- 
tioning where he was, he found the 
noise to be reality. The hail -was 
beating on the chamber windows. 

Was it hail ? Scarcely. It was 
crashing but on one window, and only 
came at intervals. It sounded more 
like gravel. Karl rose and opened the 
window. Smith the agent stood under- 
neath. A prevision of evil shook Karl 
as he leaned out. 

^^Heis ver}^ ill indeed, sir,” said Smith 
in the lowest whisper possible to be 
lieard, and extending his finger to indi- 
cate the Maze. Mr. Moore’s there 
and thinks it will be for death. I 
thought you would like to know it.” 

“How did you hear it?” asked 
Karl. 

“ Ann Hopley ran over and knocked 
me up, that I might go for the doctor.” 

“Thank yon,” replied Karl. “I’ll 
be there directl3\” 

Now it so happened that for some 
purp(^ses of cleaning — for the Court 
was not exempt from these periodical 
visitations an3^ more than the humble 
dwelling of Mrs. Chaffen — Miss 
Blake’s chamber had been temporarily 
changed to the one next to that re- 
ceutl3' occupied b3^ Lad}" Andinnian. 


Miss Blake was in the habit of sleep- 
ing with her window open, and, not 
being asleep at the time, she had 
heard IMr. Smith’s footsteps and the 
crashes at Sir Karl’s window. Of 
course she was curious as to what' 
could cause the noise, and at first 
thought of housebreakers. Had ]\Tr. 
Smith chanced to turn his head in the 
right direction, during the colloqu}^ 
with Sir Karl, he might have seen an 
elaborately-night-capped head, peeping 
forth cautiously. 

“ WI\y, it is Mr. Smith ! ” tliought 
Miss Blake, as he walked away. 
“What an extraordinar}’- thing! He 
must have been calling Sir Karl up.” 

Listening inside as well as out. Miss 
Blake heard the bell that was in Hew- 
itt’s chamber ring gently : and, after a 
minute or two, the latter proceeding to 
his master’s room. Then they both 
went down together, and Hewitt let 
Sir Karl out at the hall door, and 
came up stairs again. Miss Blake, 
after a good deal of self-puzzling ar- 
rived at the conclusion that the affair 
must be in some way connected with 
poachers — who had been bus}" on the 
land latterly — and returned to her bed. 

With death on his face, and a look 
of resignation than which nothing 
could be more peaceful, la}" Sir Adam 
for the last time. His weary life with 
all its bitter turmoil was nearly at an 
end; night here was closing, morning 
There was opening. Karl’s grey eyes 
were wet as he bent over him. 

“ Don’t grieve too much,” said 
Adam with a smile, as he put his cold 
hand into Karl’s clasp. “You know 
how much better off I shall be. Bose 
knows it.” 

“ You were so full of hope yester- 
day, Adam.” 

“Was I? It cheated the wife into 
a few hours of pleasantness, and did 
its mission. I did not think I took 
you in. “Why, Karlo, I have just 
been waiting from day to day for what 
lias now come : moreover I have seen 
how much best it all is os it is, than 
anything else would be. I would not 
accept life if you’d give it to me : un- 


AT THE RED DAWN. 265 


]es=5 the whole time since that Midsum- 
mer Eve could be blotted out. 

Karl swallowed a sob. 

You don’t know what it has been, 
Karl. ISTo one can know what it is to 
live under an unsheathed sword, as I 
have, unless they experience it. And 
few in this world can do that. It was 
all a mistake together. The shooting 
of Scott when 1 ought to have horse- 
whipped him ; the escape from Port- 
land ; the taking up my abode here ; 
everything: and these mistakes, Karl, 
have to be worked out. I have paid 
for mine with life.” 

Karl did not answer. He was only 
nervously pressing the wasted hand in 
his. 

^^It is all, I say, for the best. I see 
it now. It was best that the little lad 
should go; it is best that I should; it 
is best that jmu should be the true 
owner of Fox wood. It would have 
been too much of a complication other- 
wise. The boy could never have put 
forth a claim to it while I lived ; and, 
alter that, people might but have 
pointed' their scornful finger at him 
as the son of a convict. I thank God 
for taking him.” 

Should you talk so much, 
Adam ? ” 

I don’t know. A man in my con- 
dition, about to leave the world behind, 
prefers to talk while lie can. Yon will 
take care of my wife, Karl. There 
was no settlement, you know, and — ” 

I will take care of lier to the best 
of my power, Adam,” came the ear- 
nest interruption. She shall have a 
proper and suitable jointure as the 
widowed Lady Andinnian.” 

^^No, Karl, not that. She and I 
have talked over the future at odd mo- 
ments, and we do not wish it. Rose 
does not mean to acknowledge her 
marriage with me, or to live in any 
kind of state in accordance with it. 
She will be Mrs. Grey to the end. 
Unless, indeed, any occasion ’were to 
arise, such as a tarnishing breath of 
scandal brought against this period of 
her life. Then of course the truth 
must be declared ; and you, Karl, 
would have to come forward and testi- 
fy to it. I leave that in your hands.” 


With every surety,” assented 
Karl. 

“A few hundreds a year, say four or 
five, are all that she will want from 
you, or take. Her late uncle’s money 
must come to her sometime, and that 
of itself would be almost enough. 
She proposes to live a retired life with 
her aunt — and I think it will be the 
happiest for her. In my desk, Karl, 
you will find a paper in my hand writ- 
ing, setting forth all these wishes of 
hers and mine ; it will serve as a direc- 
tion for jmu. No,” he went on after a 
pause, for her own peace, the world 
must never know her as Lady Andin- 
nian. She dreads it too much. See 
you not the reason ? — she would have 
to stand before the public convicted of 
perjury. That fatal trial is rarely out 
of her mind, Karl — when she appear- 
ed falsely as Miss Rose Turner. The 
foolish things people do in their blind- 
ness ! — it was mj^ fault. Her fault lay 
only in obeying me ; but your charita- 
ble people would not accept that as an 
excuse. Be it as it may, Karl, Rose’s 
life henceforth will be one of modest 
position and strict retirement. Ann 
Hopley goes with her.” 

Looking at the matter from all 
points of view, it might be, as Sir 
Adam said, for the best. 

‘^And you will be Sir Karl in reali- 
ty as well as in seeming, brother mine ; 
and Foxwood will be jmur true home 
and your children’s after you. That is 
only justice. AVhen you arranged to 
marry Lucy Cleeve you deemed your- 
self to be the inheritor, and she deem- 
ed it. My death will set all to rights. 
And now about Smith, Karl. The 
man did me a good service, for I should 
liave been retaken but for him ; and he 
has been faithful to me since. I. should 
like you to allow him something in the 
shape of an annuity — a hundred and 
fifty pounds a year, or so. Not the 
cottage : he will not stay in this neigh- 
borhood when I am gone. It was 
through me that his arm got injured : 
which of course partly incapacitates 
him for work: and I think lam bound 
to /provide for him.” 

‘Mt shall be done,” said Kark 
‘‘ Ungrudgingly.” 


26G 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


I have mentioned it in the paper, 
and the sum. He — he — he — 

Sir Adam’s hesitation was caused by 
faintness. He broke down, and for the 
time said no more. Nor did he recur 
to the subject again. 

The day went on, Adam partially 
sleeping through it. At other times 
he la}^ in a kind of stupor. IMr. Moore 
attended at intervals ; but nothing far- 
ther could be done. At dusk, Hewitt 
came over for a last sight of his old 
master ; for a last farewell : and he 
sobbed bitterly as he said it. 

Karl did not go home. At which 
IMiss lilake was in much private won- 
der. Discarding the poacher theory, 
she shrewdly suspected now’ that he 
must be at the IMaze — taking the op- 
portunity of his wdfe’s absence to play 
the ga}^ bachelor aw'ay from home. 
She asked Hewdtt, she questioned 
Giles : Giles knew nothing ; Hewitt 
fancied Sir Karl might be detained at 
Basham on business. 

And so the night set in. When 
quite awake, Adam had the full pos- 
session of his senses, and exchanged a 
few w’ords, sometimes wdth his wdfe, 
sometimes wdth Karl. About three 
o’clock he fell into a calm sleep. Karl 
watched on ; Kose, weak and sick and 
Aveary, dropped into a doze in a distant 
chair. Ann Hopley was in the kitch- 
en below^ 

Save for the faint sighing of the 
wmd as it swept round the house, stir- 
ring the branches of the trees, there 
was no sound to be heard. Stillness 
reigned unbroken in the dying cham- 
ber. How many of us have kept these 
watches ! But wdio has kept them as 
this was being kept by Karl Andin- 
nian ? ” 

With that bitter aching of the heart 
known to but few, and which when felt 
in its greatest intensity, is the saddest 
pain the troubles of the world can give, 
Karl sat gazing on his brother. In 
liis love for him, every pang endured 
by Adam in the past was a sting to 
him, every hazard run had reflected on 
him its dread apprehension. He sat 
thinking of what might have been ; 
looking on what was : and an awful 


regret, than which nothing like unto 
it could be ever again experienced, tore 
at his heart strings for the w’asted life, 
cut short, ere it had reached its prime. 
More than willingly in that moment 
w’ould Karl have given his own remain- 
ing days to undo what his brother had 
done, and to restore to him freedom 
and honor. It might not be. Adam’s 
course was run ; and he was passing 
away in obscurity from the world in 
which he had virtuall}^ no longer a 
place. Never for a moment did the 
immunity from perplexity it would 
bring to himself or the release from 
the false position he had been compell- 
ed to assume, occur to Karl ; or, if it 
did, it was not dwelt upon ; all of self 
and self interest was lost in the regret 
and grief for his brother. He saw 
Adam living at Fox wood Court with 
his wife: its master; held in repute 
by men : he saw himself settled near 
with Luc}^ ; his fortunes advanced by 
his brother’s aid to a position not un- 
acceptable to Colonel Cleeve : he saw 
his mother alive still, and happy: a 
united family, enjoying comfort the one 
with the other. This might have 
been. His mother dead of a broken 
heart; Adam,- dying before his eyes, 
an escaped fugitive; his own life 
blighted with pain and sorrow unutter- 
able for Adam’s sake, his wife estrang- 
ed from him — this was what was. Be 
you very sure that no earthly pang 
could be keener than that despairing 
heart-ache felt by Karl Andinnian. 

How many a night at that still hour 
had Adam lain in his terror, listening 
to the moaning wind with supernatu- 
rallj^ quick ears, lest it should be only 
covering other sounds — the approach 
of his deadly enemies ! How man}’' 
times in a night had he quitted his 
bed, his heart beating, and stolen a 
cautious peep behind the blind to see 
whether they might not be there, in 
battle array, waiting until the dawn 
should come and they might get in to 
take him ! Ah, it was all at an end 
now ; the fever, and the fear, and the 
wasting restlessness. Wh}^ ! if the 
men were drawn up round his bed, 
they would not care to touch him. 


AT THE RED DAWN. 


267 


But the terror, from force of habit, 
stayed with him to the last. 

He started up. How long he had 
slept, and how the night was going, 
Karl in his abstraction hardly knew. 
Adam’s eyes looked somewhat wild in 
tlie shade of the night liglit and he 
put lip his feeble hand. 

What is it?” asked Karl gently. 

I thought they were here, Karl; 
I saw them in the room,” he whispered 
—and his eyes went round it. They 
had muskets, I think. Was it a 
dream ? ” 

Nothing but a dream, Adam. I 
am with you. Rose is asleep in the 
arm-chair.” 

‘‘Ay. I have not dreamt of them 
for a week past. Stay by me, Karl.” 

Karl would have risen to administer 
some cordial : but Adam was holding 
liis hand in a tight grasp; had shut 
his eyes, and seemed to be dropping 
asleep again. 

He slept about half an hour, and 
Karl’s imprisoned arm went from a 
state of pins and needles into the 
cramps. When Adam awoke, there 
was a smile on his face and a peaceful 
rest in bis eyes. He was quite col- 
lected. 

“Karl, I dreamt of them again, 
but they had turned to angels. They 
were here, all about my bed. Oh 
Karl, I wish you could see them as I 
saw them ! 3’ou’d never be afraid of 
anything more in this world. What’s 
that?” 

Karl turned round : for Adam’s eyes 
were fixed on something or other be- 
hind him. He could see nothing save 
a streak of light, herald of the dawn, 
that came in at the side of the blind. 

“Do you mean the light, Adam? 
It’s the dawn breaking.” 

“ Ay. My dawn. Draw up the 
blind, Karl.” 

Softly, not to awake Rose, Karl 
drew it up. Rose-colored clouds, her- 
alds of a beauteous sunrise, flooded 
the east. Adam lay and gazed at it, 
the smile on his face changing to a 
rapt look that seemed to speak of 
heaven, more than of earth. 

“It will be better there than here, 
Karl. Tor me.” 


“ Better for all of us.” 

“ I am very happy, Karl. The 
world is fading from me : heaven open- 
ing. Forgive me all that I have cost 
you.” 

Karl’s heart and eyes were alike full. 

“Just as the men who had troubled 
me were changed into angels, so my 
fear has changed to rest. The angels 
are about the bed still, Karl ; I know 
they are ; waiting for me. The same 
lovelj^ light shone on them that is 
shining yonder ; and they told me 
without words that the}^ were come to 
bear me up to God. I read it in. their 
tender faces — so full of pitying love 
for me ; It won’t be so very long, 
Karl : you’ll come later.” 

Karl’s tears were falling on the up- 
turned face. 

“ I should like to have seen your wife, 
Karl; just once. Tell her so, with my 
love. Ask her to forgive me the worry 
I know I have caused her.” 

“ I will, I will.” 

“Oh Karl, it has been a dreadful 
life for me ; you know it has. I be- 
gan to tliink that God had forgotten 
me — how foolish I was ! He was full 
of mercy all the while and kept me 
here in safetj^, and has now changed it 
all into peace. Listen, Karl ! there’s 
a sound of sweet music.” 

Karl could hear nothing but tlie 
wind. 

“ It is the angels singing,” whispered 
Adam, a smile of ineffable beauty on 
his face. “They sing on the journey, 
you know. Good-bye, Karl, good- 
bye ! ” 

Karl bent his face, his tears stream- 
ing, his heart aching. These partings 
are too bitter to be told of. This was 
most essential!}’’ so. 

“ Where’s Rose, Karl ? ” 

She was already by Karl’s side. 
He yielded his place to her, and went 
down to Ann ; and there sobbed over 
the kitchen fire as a woman might 
have done. 

But in the midst of it all, he could 
say as his brother had done, “ Thank 
God.” If ever a poor sinful weary 
man had need to rejoice that he was 
removed to that better world, it w'as 
Adam Andinnian. 


268 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


Eose’s bell called Karl iip again. 
The last moment was at hand. Ann 
Hopley followed : and they all stood 
round the bed and saw him die. The 
red clouds had dispersed ; the sun was 
just showing itself above the verge of 
the horizon. 


CHAPTER XL. 

LAID TO HIS REST. 

PoxwooD heard the news. Mrs. 
Grey’s shaky old gardener was dead, 
James Hopley. Mr. Moore, when ap- 
plied to for particulars, went into a 
learned dissertation on chronic rheuma- 
tism, and said that he was not able to 
save him. 

Ann Hopley astonished the under- 
taker. She gave orders for three cof- 
fins : and they must be of the best, 
she said, if it cost her a hundred 
pounds. Her poor husband and she 
had saved money, and she should like 
to spend it on him. 

"ildiere was again a battle wdth the 
clerk. It had been bad enough when 
Ann Hopley chose the ground for Mrs. 
Grey’s little child, within the precincts 
of that belonging to the Andinnian 
farail}^ : but, to insist upon it that her 
own husband, a servant, should also lie 
there, was a piece of presumption the 
equal of which the clerk had never be- 
fore heard of. However, Sir Karl, not 
waiting to be appealed to this time, 
called on the clerk, and said the wo- 
man might bury her husband there if 
she pleased : he did not think it right 
in people to assume exclusiveness after 
death, whatever they might do in life. 
The clerk lifted his hands when Sir 
Karl’s back was turned : radical no- 
tions such as these would tend to de- 
moralize the best conservative commu- 
nity. 

It was while his brother was l.ying 
dead, that Sir Karl — truly Sir Karl 
now — heard from his wife. She was 
ready to come to Foxwood, as Mrs. 
Cloeve was about to rciturn to Win- 
chester, and she appointed the follow- 
ing day, Tuesday, for Sir Karl to fetch 


her. It happened to be the day fixed 
for the funeral ; and Karl wrote back 
to say that he could not leave home 
that day, but would fetch her on the 
Wednesday instead. To this he re- 
ceived no reply ; and he of course in- 
tended to abide by it. 

Tuesdav came. About tw’elve o’clock 
in the day the funeral turned out of 
the Maze gates; sundry curious ones 
amid the juveniles being assembled to 
witness the exit. A :[uneral was not 
an everj^-day event at Foxwood, and 
besides, the Maze had been exciting 
interest of late. It was a simple 
funeral. The plumed hearse and one 
mourning coach ; the undertaker and 
carriers walking. In the coach w^ent 
Ann Hopley smothered in a hood, with 
Hewitt to bear her company. Fox- 
wood said it was very neighborly and 
civil of the butler : but Miss Blake 
felt sure he had received private orders 
from Sir Karl, and she wondered what 
Sir Karl was coming to. 

Now Lucy, Lady Andinnian, look- 
ing at things all cross-wise, as she had 
been looking, poor wife, for some time 
past, was very resentful that Sir Karl 
would not fetch her on the day she 
named. She reasoned with herself 
that his refusal must arise from one of 
two causes : either he was neglectfully 
indifferent, or else he had some engage- 
ment with Mrs. Grey : for, of deter- 
ring occupation, she believed he pos- 
sessed none. Proudly angry, she de- 
termined to take her own way, and 
return home without him. 

Accordingly, on the Tuesday she 
started wdth her maid from London. 
But, like many a one who does things in 
off-hand inexperience, she made a mis- 
take, and took the WTong train. That 
is, she took one that did not stop at 
Foxwood. Lucy discovered this after 
she w^as in the carriage, and found 
they must get out at Basham. Leav- 
ing Agla4 and the luggage to wait for 
the next train, wdiich wmuld not be up 
for two hours, Lucy took one of the 
waiting flies, and drove on, 

Lucy was full of thoughts and anti- 
cipations. Slie wmndered where her 
husband was, what she should find 


LAID TO HIS REST. 


269 


him doing, and what excuse he would 
make. It lasted her all the way ; and 
they were close on Foxwood village 
before anything occurred to arouse her. 

She awoke to find the driver, who 
was a Foxwood man, had come very 
nearly to a standstill, and was staring 
at a funeral procession just then enter- 
ing the churchj^ard. 

The first object that met Lucy’s eye 
was Plewi'tt. Hewitt attired as a 
mourner, and following the coffin. 
For a moment, Lucy’s heart beat 
quicker and her gaze was strained : 
who could it be that was inside. 
Gradually her e3^es took in the whole 
of the scene : the spectators collected 
in the distance, watching; the person 
enveloped in a silk hood and cloak at 
Hewitt’s side : Mr. Sumnor in his sur- 
plice. 

All in a moment, as it seemed, just 
as the clergyman began to read, spring- 
ing she could not tell from whence, 
there advanced Sir Karl Andinnian. 
He was in black attire, but wore nei- 
ther crape band nor scarf; and it might 
liave been thought he was only an or- 
dinar}’- spectator. Hewitt, however, 
drew a step back to give his master 
the place of precedence, as though out 
of proper respect, as did Ann Hopley : 
and Sir Karl took oft* his hat and stood 
there, close to the coffin, his bared head 
bent low. 

How very strange it is ! ” thought 
Luc}^ Who can be in the coffin ? — 
and who is the woman in the black 
silk cloak and hood ? There is Mr. 
Smith, the agent, too! — he, is standing 
near with his hat oft* now.” 

‘‘Lucy! Can it be you? We did 
not expect you before to-morrow.” 

The voice was Miss Blake’s. St. 
Jerome’s devotees were no more free 
from curiosity tlian their inferiors ; and 
a few of them had chanced to be tak- 
ing a walk past the churchyard just at 
the critical moment, of whom Miss 
Blake was one. 

“I thought I w^ould come to-day, 
and not give Sir Karl the trouble of 
fetching me,” replied Lucy. “ Aglae 
is coming on from Basham by the next 
train with the luggage. How are you, 
Theresa? Will you come inside?” 


Miss Blake’s answer was to open the 
fly door, seat herself by Lucy’s side, and 
turn her gaze on the churchyard. The 
scene bore a charm for her as w’ell as 
for Lucy. 

“ Why, that’s Sir Karl there ! ” she 
exclaimed in surprise, the spectators’ 
heads having intercepted her view while 
on the ground. 

“ Yes,” assented Lucy. “And there’s 
Hewitt, — -and Sir Karl’s agent — and a 
mourner with her face hidden. Who is 
it that’s being buried, Theresa?” 

“ Why it’s onl}" the old gardener at 
the Maze. As to Hewitt, I suppose he 
had to go to keep the woman in coun- 
tenance. The old man was her hus- 
band, you know.” 

“ But what should bring Sir Karl 
there ? ” 

“ And standing just as though he 
were chief mourner ! ” commented iMiss 
Blake, devouring the scene wdth her 
condemning eyes, and giving the reins 
to her thoughts. “I don’t know why 
he is there, Lucy. There are several 
things that I have not attempted to 
understand for some time past.” 

“ Is not that the part of the church- 
yard where the Andinnians lie ? — 
wdiere their vault is ? ” 

“ It is. But Hopley is being buried 
there, you see : and that infant, that 
3mu know of, w'as buried there. The 
clerk is in a fine w^ay over it, people 
sa}^ ; but Sir Karl ruled that it should 
be so.” 

Thoughts connected with Mrs. Grey 
and the inexplicable manner in wdiich 
Sir Karl seemed to ^deld to her humors 
even to the humoring of her servants, 
flashed into Lucj^’s brain. It did not 
tend to appease her previous anger 
against him. 

“ Why could not Sir Karl come for 
me to-daj^, Theresa? ” 

“ It is of no use to ask me, Lucy. 
Sir Karl does not explain his motives 
to me. This funeral perhaps kept him,” 
added Miss Blake sarcasticallj^, uncon- 
scious how very near she was to the 
truth. “After you left, he seemed almost 
to live at the Maze. Last week he was 
there, as I believe, for a whole day 
and a whole night. I must speak, 
Lucy. Out of regard to decency that 


270 


WITHIN .THE i\IAZE. 


girl ought to quit the Maze, or you 
quit Foxwood.” 

‘‘ Drive on,’^ cried Lucy to the coach- 
man in a tone as though the world and' 
all things in it were grating on her. 
And the man did not dare disobey the 
sharp command. 

Dut IMiss Blake preferred to get out ; 
and did so. She had said what she did 
say from good motives : and she took 
credit for not making worse of the ac- 
count — as she might have done. Not 
a word would she about his being 
called up in the night — and she knew 
now that it was to the Maze he was 
summoned. With her whole heart she 
pitied Lucy. 

“ May I be forgiven if my duty 
ought to li^ in silence ! ” she muttered 
as she joined the Miss St. Henrys and 
others in the crowd. “ Lucy seems to 
have no friend about her in the world 
but me.” 

The interment was over. The pro- 
cession — what was left of it — went its 
way back again, Hewitt and Ann 
H opl ey side by- si cte i h th ach . Sir 
Karl strolled away over the fields, and 
presently found himself joined by Mr. 
Smith. 

So your mission at Foxwood is 
over,” he sadly cried to the latter. 
have no more need to make believe I 
want an agent now.” 

“ Ay, it’s over. Sir Karl. Better al- 
most that he had fallen in the fray at 
Weymouth ; that I had never saved 
him ; than have lived to what his life 
has since been.” 

Better for him had he never come to 
the Maze,” rejoined Sir Karl. 

It was none of my doing. As you 
know, sir.” 

‘‘ No : but* you opposed his leaving 
it.” 

As he was here, I did. 1 had but 
his interests at heart, Sir Karl: al- 
though I know you have thought the 
contrary. The chances were that he 
could not have got away in safety. In 
his own person he dared not have risk- 
ed it ; and a decrepid figure like old 
Hopley’s must have attracted atten- 
tion. But for that detective’s pitching 
upon Foxwood to make a hunting place 


of, I believe Sir Adam would have 
been most secure there.” 

“ Well, it is over, with all its risks 
and chances,” sighed Karl. He did 
not forget you when he was dying. 
His wish was that ^mu should enjoy a 
moderate annuity during your life: 
which I have undertaken to pay.” 

The agent’s thanks, and they appear- 
ed very heartfelt and genuine, were cut 
short by the appearance of Mr. Moore. 
He joined them as they walked along, 
and the conversation fell on the illness 
of the deceased. 

There was no real hope from the 
beginning, once the disease had set fair- 
ly in,” cried the surgeon, There 
never is. In Sir Adam’s case the ter- 
rible anxiety he endured day and night 
brought it on, and caused it to develop 
with unusual rapidity : there was not a 
shadow of chance for him.” 

You did not tell me that,” said 
Karl. 

I was not quite sure of it myself at 
first : though I suspected it. I did 
not tell you, you say, Sir Karl : well, 
no ; not in so many words : but your 
own eyes might have seen it as its pro- 
gress went on. Sir Adam knew it him- 
self, I fancy, as surely as I.” 

Do you remember saying you wish- 
ed he could have further advice,” asked 
Karl. Did not that prove that you 
had hope ? ” 

‘‘No. I wished it chiefly for the sat- 
isfaction of those connected with him. 
All the advice in the world could not 
— as I supposed then and soon saw — 
have availed to save his life. We some- 
times say of people, Death has been a 
happy release for them. In his case, 
Sir Karl, it has been most unquestion- 
ably so : he is at rest.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

REPENTANCE. 

Down on her knees in self abase- 
ment, the tears of contrition running 
from her eyes, her face scarlet in its 
agony of shame, cowered Lucy Andin- 
iiian at her husband’s feet. She would 


REPENTANCE. 


271 


not let him raise lier. It seemed to her 
that a whole life time of repentance 
could never wash out her sin. 

The elucidation of the misunder- 
standing, that had kept them apart for 
months, was taking place. On the day 
after the funeral, Karl souglit his wife 
in the dressing room to tell her of 
what had occurred. She had scarcely 
spoken a word to him since his return, 
or allowed him to speak one to her. 
Very briefly, in half a dozen words, he 
informed her his brother was dead, and 
delivered the message Adam had left 
for her. For a few minutes Lucy’s be- 
wilderment was utter ; and, when she 
did at length grasp somewhat of the 
truth, her confusion and distress were 
pitiable. 

Oh Karl, Karl, do you think you 
will ever be able to forgive me? What 
can I do ? — what can I do to atone for 
' it ? ” 

You must get up, Lucy, before I 
say whether I forgive you, or not.” 

cannot get up. It seems to me 
that I ought never to get up again. 
Your brother at the Maze ! your broth- 
er’s wife I Oh what must you have 
thought of my conduct? Oh Karl, 
why do jmu not strike me as I lie ? ” 

Sir Karl put forth his arms and his 
strength and raised her to the sofa. 
She bent her face down on its pillow, 
to weep out her tears of shame. 

“ Come, Lucy,” he said when he had 
waited a few minutes, sitting beside 
her. We shall not arrive at the end 
in this way. Is possible that jmu did 
not know my brother was alive ?” 

‘^How could I Imow it, Karl?” she 
asked amid her streaming tears. How 
was I likely to know it ? ” 

You told me vou knew it. You 
said to me that ,you had discovered the 
secret at the Maze. I thought you 
were resenting the fact of his being 
alive. Or, rather, of my having mar- 
ried you, knowing that he was.” 

Whj^ should I resent it? How 
could you think so? Was that the se- 
cret you spoke of in Paris the night 
before our wedding ? — that Adam was 
alive.” 

“ That, and no other. But I did not 


know then that he was married — or 
suspect that he ever would marry. I 
learnt that fact only during my moth- 
er’s last illness.” 

‘^Oh, Karl, this is dreadful,” she 
sobbed. “ What must you have thought 
of me all this time ? I almost wish I 
could die !” 

• You still care for me, then ; a lit- 
tle.” 

Care for you ! ” 

With a burst of anguish she turned 
and hid her face upon his breast. I 
have only loved you the better all the 
while,” she whispered. 

^‘Lucy, my dear, I say we shall not 
get to the end in this way. Look up. 
If you were in ignorance of my broth- 
er’s existence, and of all the complica- 
tions for you and forme that it involv- 
ed, what then was it that you were re- 
senting ? ” 

Don’t ask me, Karl,” she said, her 
face grov/ing scarlet again. ‘‘ I could 
not tell you for the shame.” 

He drew a little away, making a 
movement to put her from him. Never 
had his countenance been so stern to 
her as it was now, never could he be 
so little trifled with. Lucy shivered. 

“ If there is to be an explanation be- 
tween us, Lucy, it must be full and 
complete. I insist upon its being so. 
If you refuse to give it now — why, I 
shall never ask you for it again. Do 
you not think you owe me one ?” 

Again she bent her crimson face 
upon him. I owe you everything, 
Karl ; I owe you more reparation than 
I can ever pay. Never, as long as 
our lives shall last, will I have a secret 
from you again, heaven helping me. If 
I hesitate to tell you this, it is because 
I am ashamed for you to‘ know how 
foolish I could be, and the wicked 
thoughts I could have.” 

Not more foolish or wicked, I dare- 
say, than I was for making you my 
wife. Speak out, Lucy. It must be 
so, you see, if there is to be a renewal 
of peace between us.” 

Keeping her head where it was, her 
face hidden from him, Lucy whispere-I 
her confession. Karl started from her 
in very astonishment. 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


^ I ^ 

“Lucy! You could think that! 
Of me !‘’^ 

She put up her hands beseechingly. 
“Oh forgive me, Karl; for the sake 
of the pain, forgive me ! It seemed to 
be killing me all the while. See how 
worn and thin I am.’’ 

He put his arm out and drew her to 
his side. “ Go on, m}^ dear. How did 
you pick up the notion ? ” 

“ It was Theresa.” And now that 
the ice was broken, anxious to tell all 
and clear herself, Lucy described the 
past in full : the cruel anguish she had 
battled with, and her poor, ever-to-be 
renewed efforts to endure patiently, for 
his sake and for God’s. Karl’s arm 
involuntarily tightened around her. 

“ Why did you not speak to me of 
this at once, Lucy ? ” he asked after a 
pause. “It would have cleared it up, 
you see.” 

“ I did speak to you, Karl ; and you 
seemed to understand me entirely, and 
to accept it all as truth. You must 
remember your agitation, and how you 
begged me not to let it come to an ex- 
posure.” 

“But I thought you alluded to the 
trouble about my poor brother, that it 
was the fact of his being alive you had 
discovered and were resenting. That 
was the exposure I.dreaded. And no 
wonder: for, if it had come, it would 
have sent him back to Portland 
Island.” 

Lucy wrung her hands, “What a 
miserable misapprehension it has been 
— and how base and selfish and cruel I 
must have appeared to you ! I won- 
der, Karl, you did not put me away 
from you forever.” 

“ Will you go now ? ” 

She knew it was asked in jest: she 
probably knew that neither would have 
parted from the other for the wealth 
of worlds. And she nestled the least 
bit closer to him. 

“Karl!” 

“ Well?” 

“ Why did you not tell me about 
your brother when you found I knew 
something, and was resenting it? If 
I had bat known the real truth ! we 
should never have been at issue for a 
day.” 


% 

“Kemember, Lucy, that I thouglit 
it was what you knew, and spoke of. 
I thought you knew he was alive and 
was at the Maze with his wife. When 
I would have given you the whole 
history from the first, you stopped me 
and refused to hear. I wished to give 
it, that you might see I was less to 
blame than you seemed to be suppos- 
ing. It has been a wretched play at 
cross purposes on both sides : and 
neither of us, that I see, is to blame 
for it.” 

“ Poor Sir Adam ! ” she cried, the 
tears falling. “ Living in that dread- 
ful fear day after day! And what, 
must his poor wife have suffered! And 
her baby dying, and now her husband ! 
And I, instead of giving sympathy, 
have thought everything that was ill 
of her, and hated her and despised 
her. And Karl — why, Karl — she 
must have been the real Lady Andiu- 
nian.” 

He nodded. “Until Adam’s death, 

I was not Sir Karl, you see. The day 
you came with her from Basham ; and 
the}" told her the fly, waiting at the 
station, was for Lady Andinnian, she 
was stricken with terror, believing they 
meant herself.” 

“Oh if I had known, all this time!” 
bewailed Lucy. “ Stuck up here in 
my false pride and folly, instead of 
helping you to shield them and to 
lighten their burden ! I cannot hope 
that you will ever quite forgive me in 
your heart, Karl.” 

“ Had it been as I supposed it was, 

I am not quite sure that I should. 
Not quite, Lucy, even to our old age. 
You took it up so harshly and sellislily, 
looking at it from my point of view, 
and resented it in so extraordinary a 
fashion, so bitter a spirit ” 

“ Oh don’t, don’t ! ” she pleaded, 
slipping down to his feet again in the 
depth of her remorse, the old sense 
of shame on her burning cheeks. 

“ Won’t you be merciful to me ? I 
have suffered so much.” 

“ Why my darling, you are mistak- 
ing me again,” he cried tenderly, as 
he once more raised her. “ I said, 
looking at it from my point of view. 
Looking at it from yours, Lucy, I am 


REPENTxVNCE. 


273 


amazed at your gentle forbearance. 
Few young wives would have been so 
good and patient as you.’’ 

Then do you really forgive me, 
Karl?” she asked, raising her eyes 
and her wet cheeks. 

‘‘Before I answer that, I think I 
must ask whether you forgive my hav- 
ing married you — now that you know 
all.” 

“ Oh Karl ! ” 

She fell upon his shoulder, her arms 
round his neck. Karl caught her face 
to his. He might take what kisses he 
chose from it again. 

“ Karl, would you please let me go 
to see her ? ” she whispered. 

“ See whom ? ” asked Karl, in rath- 
er a hard tone, his mind pretty full 
just then of Miss Blake. 

“ Poor Lady Andinnian.” 

“Yes, if you will,” he softly said. 
“ I think she would like it. But, my 
dear, you must call her ‘ Mrs. Grey ’ 
remember. Kot only for safety, but 
that she would prefer it.” 

They went over in the afternoon. 
Miss Blake, quite accidentally this 
time, for she was returning home qui- 
etly from confession at St. Jerome’s — 
and a wholesale catalogue of peccadil- 
loes she must have been disclosing, one 
would say, by the length of hearing — 
saw them enter. It puzzled her not a 
little. Sir Karl taking his wife 
Oh, what fresh ruse, wdiat further de- 
ceit was he going to try? Oh but it 
was sinful ! worse than anything ever 
taken for Mr. Cattacomb’s absolution 
at St. Jerome’s. 

Lucy behaved badly: without the 
slightest dignity whatever. The first 
thing she did was to burst out crying, 
and kiss Mrs. Grey’s hand : as if — it 
really seemed so to Mrs. Grey — she did 
not dare to offer to kiss her cheek. 
Very sad and pretty she looked in her 
widowed mourning. 

It was a sad interview: though in 
some respects a soothing and satisfac- 
tory one. Lucy explained, without en- 
tering into au}^ details whatever, that 
she had not known who it was residing 
at the Maze, or she would have been 
.7 


over before, Karl and Sir Adam per- 
mitting her. Rose supposed that for 
safety’s sake Karl had deemed it well 
to keep the secret intact. And there 
the matter ended. 

“ You will come and stay with me 
at the Court before you leave,” pleaded 
Lucy. 

Rose shook her head. “ It is very 
kind of you to wish it. Lady Andin- 
nian ; very kind indeed under the cir- 
cumstances; but it could not be. I 
shall not pass through these gates un- 
til I pass through them with Ann Hop- 
ley for good. That will not be long 
first.” 

“At least, you will come and stay 
with us sometime in the future.” 

“ I think not. Unless I should get 
a fever upon me to see the spot once 
more that contains my husband and 
child. In that case I might trespass on 
you for a day or two if you would have 
me. Tliank you very much. Lady An- 
dinnian.” 

‘‘ You will let me come over again 
before you leave ? ” 

“ Oh I should be pleased — if Sir 
Karl has no objection. Thank you^ 
Karl,” she added, holding out her 
hands to him. “Thank you for all! 
You have been to us ever the most 
faithful friend and brother.” 

The church bell at Fox wood was 
ringing for the late afternoon service as 
they quitted the Maze — for Mr. Sum- 
nor, in spite of discouragement and 
non-attendance, kept on the daily ser- 
vice. The ting-tang was sounding 
from St. Jerome’s: and several dam- 
sels, who had come round by the Court 
to call for Miss Blake, were trooping 
past. Lucy bowed ; Karl lifted his 
hat : be had ceased to care who saw 
him going in and out of the Maze gate 
now. 

“Karl,” said Lucy, “I should like 
to go to prayers this evening. I shall 
take no harm : it is scarcely dusk yet.” 

He turned to take her. Mr. Sum- 
nor and the clerk were in the cliurch ; 
hardly anybody else — ^just as it had 
been that other evening when Lucy 
had crept in. Even Miss Diana was 
off to St, Jerome’s, in the wake of her 


274 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


flighty nieces. Lucy went on to her 
own pew this time. 

Oh what a contrast it was! — this 
evening and that. Now she was utterly 
still in her rapt thankfulness; then she 
had lain on the floor, her heart crving 
aloud to God in its agony. What 
could she do to show her gratitude to 
Him, who' had turned the darkness 
into this radiant light? She could do 
nothing. Nothing, save strive to let 
her whole life be spent as a thank-of- 
fering. Karl noted her excessive still- 
ness, her blinding tears; and he proba- 
bly guessed her thoughts. 

While he was talking to IMr. Sum- 
nor after the service, Lucy w^ent into 
the Vicarage. Margaret, Ijnng in the 
dusk, for the room was only lighted b}^ 
its bit of fire, could not see who had 
entered. 

‘‘Is it you, Martha?’’ she said,y 
thinking it was her sister. “ You are 
back early.” 

“ It is I — Lucy,” said Lady Andin-^ 
nian. “ Oh, Margaret, I was obliged 
to come to you just for a minute. 
Karl is outside, and we have been to 
cliurch. I have something to tell.”’ 

Margaret Sumnor put out both her 
bands in token of welcome. Instead 
of taking them, Lucy knelt by the re- 
clining board, and brought her face 
close to her friend’s, and spoke in a 
bushed whisper. 

“Margaret, I want to thank you, 
and I don’t know how. I have been 
thinking how impossible it will be for 
me ever to thank God • and it seems 
to be nearly as impossible ever to 
thank you. Do you remember what 
you once said tp me, Margaret, about 
bearing and waiting? W^ell, but for 
you, I don’t thirikT could have borne 
or waited, even in the poor way I 
have; and — and — ” 

She broke down : sobs of emotion 
checked her utterance. 

“ Be calm, my dear,” said Margaret. 
“ You have come to tell me that the 
trouble is over.” 

“Yes: God has ended it. And, 
^largaret, I never need have had a 
shade of it : I was on a wrong track 
all the while. I — I was led to think 


ill of my husband ; I treated him 
worse than any one ever will know or 
would believe : wliile he was good and 
loyal to the core in all ways and in the 
most bitter trouble the worhl can in- 
flict. Oh, Margaret, had I been vin- 
dictive instead of patient, I might 
have caused the most dire injury and 
tribulation, and what would have been 
my condition now, my dreadful remorse 
through life ? When the thought 
comes over me, I shiver as I did in 
that old ague-fever.” 

A fit of shivering took her actually. 
Miss Sumnor saw how the matter had 
laid hold upon her. 

“ L!!cy,.my dear, it seems to me that 
you may put away these thoughts now. 
God has been merciful and cleared it 
to you, you say ; and you ought to be 
happy.” 

“ Oh, so merciful ! ” she sobbed. 
“ So happy! But it might have been 
otherwise, and I cannot forget or for- 
give myself.” 

“ Do you remember, Lucy, what I 
said ? That some day when the cloud 
was removed your heart would go up 
with a great bound of joyous thankful- 
ness ? ” 

“Yes. Because I did — and have 
done — as Margaret told me; and 
bore.” 

The affair had indeed laid no slight 
hold of Lucy. She could not forget 
what might have been the result, and 
quite an exaggerated remorse set in. 

A few nights afterwards Karl was 
startled out of his sleep by her. She 
had awoke it appeared, in a sad state 
of terror, and had turned to seize hold 
of him with a nervous grasp as of one 
who is drowning. Shaking, sobbing, 
moaning, she frightened her husband. 
He would have risen to get a light, but 
she clung to him too tightly. 

“ But what has alarmed you, Lucy ? 
— what is it ? ” he reiterated. 

“ I dreamt it, Karl ; I did indeed,” 
she sobbed in her bitter distress. “ I 
am always thinking of it by day, but 
this time I dreamt it; and I awoke 
thinking it was true.” 

“ Dreamt what ? ” he asked. 

“ I thought that cruel time was back 


ONLY A MAN LIKE OTHER MEN. 


275 


again. I thought that I ha^l not been 
quiet and patient^ as IMargaret enjoined, 
leaving vengeance to God, but liad 
taken it into my own hands, and so 
l)ad caused the Maze’s secret to be dis- 
covered. You and Adam liad botlv 
died through it; and I was left all 
alone to my dreadful repentance on 
some barren place surrounded by tur- 
bid water.” 

“ Lucy, you will assuredly make | 
yourself ill.” 

“ But, oh Karl, if it had been true ! 
If God had not saved me from it !” 


CHAPTER XLTI. 

ONLY A MAN LIKE OTHER MEN. 

They stood togetlier in the north 
parlor: Sir Karl Andinnian and Miss 
Blak^. In the least severe terms he 
knew how to employ, Sir Karl was 
telling her of her abuse of his hospi- 
tality — the setting his wife against 
him — and intimating that her visit to 
them had better for the present ter- 
minate. 

It took Miss Blake by surprise. 
She had remarked a difference in their 
behavior to one another in the past 
day or two. Lucy scarcely left Sir 
Karl alone a minute: she was with 
him in his parlor, she clung to his arm 
in unmistakable fondness in the gar- i 
den, her eyes were forever seeking his 
with a look of pleading, deprecating 
love. The}^ could not have been two 
greater sinvpletoiv^ in their honeymoon, 
severely tiiought Miss Blake. 

Something else had rather surprised 
her. Walking past the Maze on this 
same morning, she saw the gate prop- 
ped open, and a notice that the house 
was to let, erected on a board. The 
place was empty ; the late tenants of 
it, the ladj^ and her maid, had depart- 
ed." Turning to ask Mr. Smith the 
meaning of this, she saw a similar 
board at his house. Mr. Smith was 
packing up, and Clematis Cottage was 
in the market. 

Good gracious ! Are you going to 
leave us, Mr. Smith ? ” she asked, as 


that gentleman showed himself for a 
moment at the open window, with an 
armful of books and papers. 

“ Sorry to say that I am, madam. 
Business is calling me to London.” 

“ I hear that Mrs. Grey has left, too. 
What can have taken her away ? ” 

“ Don’t know,” said Mr.* Smith. 

Does not care to stop in the house 
perhaps, after a death has taken place 
I in it. Servants must die as well as 
other people, though.” 

Without another word to her, he 
went to the back of the room with his 
load, and began stuffing it into a 
trunk with his one arm. Miss Blake 
summed up the conclusion in her own 
mind. 

Sir Karl must-have summarily dis- 
missed him.” 

Little did she foresee that Sir Karl 
wms about, so to say, summarily to dis- 
miss herself. On this same day it was 
that he sought the interview. When 
the past was touched upon by Karl, 
and her part in it. Miss Blake, for 
once in her life, showed signs tliat she 
had a temper, and her face turned 
white. 

“ You might have done incalculable 
mischief. Miss Blake: mischief that 
could never be repaired in this world,” 
he said, standing to face her. I do 
not allude to the estrangement that 
might have been caused between rov- 
self and my wife, but evil of a differ- 
ent nature. What could possibly have 
induced you to take up so outrageous 
a notion in regard to me ?” 

Miss Blake, in rather a shrill tone — 
for she was one of those unfortunate 
individuals whose voices grow harsh 
with annoyance — ventured upon a dis- 
paraging word of Mrs. Grey, but evad- 
ed the true question. Karl did not al- 
low her to go on. 

‘‘That lady, madam,” he said, rais- 
ing his hand with a kind of solemnity, 
“ was good and pure and honorable as 
is my own wife ; and my dear wife 
knows it now. She was sacred to me 
as a sister. Her husband was my dear 
and long tried friend ; and he was for 
some months in great trouble and dis- 
tress. I wished to do what I could to 


276 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


alleviate it : my visits there were paid 
to himJ^ 

But he was not living thered^ re- 
joined Miss Blake, partly in hardy 
contest, partly in surprise. 

‘‘Indeed he was living there. He 
had his reasons for not wishing to 
make any acquaintance in the place, 
and so kept himself in retirement: 
reasons in which I fully acquiesced. 
However, his troubles are at an end 
now ; and — and the family have ceased 
to be my tenants.’^ 

Whether Miss Blake felt more angry 
or more vexed, she w’as not collected 
enough at the moment to know. It 
w^as a very anno^dng termination to 
her long and seemingjy well-grounded^ 
suspicions. She always wished to do 
what was right, and had the grace to 
feel somewhat ashamed of the past. 

“ What I said to Lucj", I believed I 
had perfectly good grounds for, Sir 
Karl. I had the interests of religion 
at heart when I spoke.'’ 

“ Religion !” repeated Sir Karl, his 
lips involuntarily curling. “ Religion 
is as religion does, Miss Blake.” 

“After all, she did not heed me: so 
if it did no good, it did no harm. 
Lucy is so very weak-minded — ” 

“Weak-minded!” interposed Sir 
Karl. “ If to act as she did — to bear 
patiently and make no stir under ex- 
treme provocation, trusting to the fu- 
ture to right the wrong — if this is to 
be weak-minded, why I thank God 
that she is so. Had she been strong- 
minded as you. Miss Blake, the result 
might have been terribly different.” 

Miss Blake was nettled. Her man- 
ner froze. “ I see what it is. Sir Karl : 
you and your wife are so displeased 
with me that I feel my presence in 
your house is no longer welcome. As 
soon as I can make arrangements, I 
will quit it — thanking you both for 
your hospitality.” 

She paused. Sir Karl paused too. 
Perhaps she had a faint expectation 
that he would hasten to refute the de- 
cision and request her to stay on. But 
he did nothing of the kind. On the 
contrary he, in a word or two of polite- 
ness, acquiesced in the proposal of de- 


parture, as though it admitted of no 
question. 

“ I should not have trespassed on 
you so long ; in fact I should not have 
stayed at all after your first return 
here with Lady Andinnian, but for St. 
Jerome’s,” she rejoined, her temper 
getting up again ; while there ran in 
her mind an undercurrent of thought as 
to whether she could find suitable lodg- 
ings in Fox wood. 

“You will not have to regret that, 
in leaving,” he observed. “ I am about 
to do away with St. Jerome’s.” 

“ To do awa}" with St. Jerome’s ! ” 

“ In a week’s time from this it will 
be shut up, and all the nonsense with- 
in its walls cleared away.” 

“ The nonsense 1 ” shrieked Miss 
Blake. 

“ Why you cannot call it sense — or 
religion either. To tell you the truth. 
Miss Blake, the place has been an of- 
fence to me for some time. It has rais- 
ed a scandal ” 

“ For shame. Sir Karl Andinnian 1 
Scandal, indeed ! ” 

“ And this little bit of fresh scandal, 
that has arisen now, people don’t like 
I at all,” quietly persisted Sir Karl. 

I “Neither do I. So, to prevent the 
I Bishop coming down upon us here, Miss 
Blake, I close the place.” 

Miss Blake compressed her lips. She 
could have struck him as he stood. 

“ What do you mean by a ‘ fresh ’ 
scandal, pray ? ” 

“ Well, the story runs that Mr. Cat- 
tacomb was seen to kiss one of the 
young ladies in the vestry.” 

Miss Blake started ; iVIiss Blake 
shrieked; Miss Blake wondered that 
the very ceiling did not drop down up- 
on the bold, false tongue. To do her 
justice, she believed St. Jerome’s pas- 
tor was by far too holy a man for any 
wickedness of tlie sort. Not to speak 
of restraining prudence. 

“ Sir Karl, may you be forgiven I 
Where do you expect to go to, when 
you die ? ” 

“ To the Heaven, I hope, that our 
merciful God has provided for us,” he 
answered, meeting the query solemnly 
and with some emotion. “ Some of 


ONLY A MAN LIKE OTHER MEN. 


277 


those dearer to me than life^ have gone 
on tliitlier to wait for me.’’ 

At which Miss Blake drew up her 
pious head, and intimated that she 
feared it might be another kind of place, 
unless he should mend his manners. 
And Sir Karl closed the interview, 
leaving her to understand that she had 
received her cong^. 

The circumstance to which he allud- 
ed, was this. A day or two before, 
some prying boys, comrades of Tom 
•Pepp, were about St. Jerome’s as usual. 
For, ever since its establishment, the 
place had been quite a point of attrac- 
tion to these 3"oung reptiles ; and, keep 
off, they would not. On the morning 
in question, hovering around the vestry 
window and the walls generally, a 
slight inlet of view was discovered, in 
consequence of the blinds being acci- 
dentally drawn somewhat aside. Of 
course as man}’ eyes were applied to the 
chink as could find space ; and they had 
the pleasure of seeing the parson steal 
a kiss or two from the blushing cheek 
of Miss Jemima Moore. Rare nuts for 
the boys to crack ! Before the day had 
closed it was being talked of in Fox- 
wood and reached the ears of Miss Di- 
ana. She handed the case over to the 
doctor. 

Down he went to St. Jerome’s on 
the following morning, and caught Mr. 
Cattacomb alone in the vestry, just get- 
ting into his sheepskin. Mr. Moore 
wasted no time in circumlocution or su- 
perfluous greeting. 

You were seen to kiss my daughter 
j^esterday, young man.” 

To be pounced upon in this unavert- 
ed manner, is enough to try the nerves 
of almost any hero ; what must it have 
been then for a modest young clergy- 
man with a character for holiness, like 
Guy Cattacomb? He stammered and 
stuttered, and blushed to the very roots 
of his scanty hair. The tippet itself 
turned of a rosy hue. 

“ No equivocation, sir. Do you ac- 
knowledge it, or do you not ? ” 

Gathering up his scared wits and a 
modicum of courage in the best wa}^ he 
could, the Reverend Guy Cattacomb ac- 
knowledged it to be true. He added 
that he and Miss Jemima were serious- 


ly attached to each other ; that he 
hoped sometime to win her for his wife ; 
and that a sense of his utter want of 
means had alone prevented his speak- 
ing to Mr. Moore. 

^‘Now look here,” said the doctor af- 
ter a pause of consideration, perceiv- 
ing from the young man’s earnest man- 
ner that this was the actual state of 
the case, I say no to you at present. 
It lies with yourself whether I ever 
say 3^es. If you and she care for one 
another, I should be the last to stand 
in 3^our way, once you have proved 
yourself worthy of her. Get rid of all 
the rubbish that’s filling up jmur fool- 
ish brain” — and he gave his hand a 
sweep around — “ become a faithfal, hon- 
est clergyman of the Church of Eng- 
land, serving your Master to the best 
of 3mur power ; and then you may ask 
for her. A daughter of mine shall 
never tie herself to a vain fop : no, 
though I had to banish her to the 
wilds of Kamtschatka.” 

“ I’ll do my best, sir, to become what 
you will approve of,” returned the par- 
son humbly, ‘Gf 3’ou will only give me 
hope of Miss Jemima.” 

“ It is because I think you have some 
good in you, that I do give you hope, 
Mr. Cattacomb. The issue lies with 
you.” 

Now this was what Sir Karl alluded 
to. When it fell to Miss Blake’s lot to 
find it was true and to hear the partic- 
ulars, she thought in her mortification 
that the world must be drawing to an 
end : at least, it was signally degener- 
ating. That adored saint to have 
turned out to be only a man after all — 
with all a man’s frail nature ! All 
Miss Blake’s esteemed admirers seem- 
ed to be slipping from her one by one. 

She and the congregation generally 
were alike incensed: Mr. Cattacomb, 
lost to any future hopes, fell in their 
estimation from fever heat down to 
zero : and they reall3" did not much 
care, after this, whether St. Jerome’s 
was shut up or not. So Sir Karl and 
Farmer Truefit found their way was 
made plain before them. 

‘‘What a heap of silk we have 
wasted on cushions and things for 
him !” cried Charlotte St. Henry in a 


278 


WITHIN THE MAZE. 


passion. And all tlirough that sly 
little cat, Jemima Moore 1 

CONCLUSION. 

A sweet calm day in early spring. 
Sir Karl and his wife stood on tlie 
steps of their house, hand in liand, 
ready to welcome Colonel and Mrs. 
Cleeve, wLo were driving up to pay a 
long visit. Lucy had recovered all her 
good looks ; Karl’s face had lost its 
sadness. 

Things had been getting themselves 
straight after the dark time of trouble. 
Some pleasant neighbors w’ere at the 
Maze now ; Clematis Cottage w^as oc- 
cupied by Margaret Sum nor. There 
was a new vicar of Fox wood. Mr. 
Sumnor, who had not been without his 
trials in life, had died in the winter. 
His widow and second family went to 
reside in London ; Margaret, who had 
her own mother’s fortune now — which 
vvas just enough to live upon quietly — 
removed to Clematis Cottage, to the 
extreme delight of Lady Andinnian. 
St. Jerome’s had been converted into a 
school room again ; its former clergy- 
men had retired into private life for a 
season, and no more omnibus loads of 
young ladies came over from Basham. 
Sir Karl was earning popularity every- 
where. Caring earnestly for those 
about him, actively promoting the wel- 
fare of all, unceasingly and untiringly, 
generous in aiding, chary of fault find- 
ing, Sir Karl Andinnian was esteemed 
and beloved even more than Sir Joseph 
had been. ^Nothing educates and sof- 
tens the human heart like the sharp 
school of adversity^ 

“ Lucy, you are .a puzzle to me,” 
said Mrs. Cleeve, when she had her 
daughter to herself upstairs. ‘‘ In the 
autumn you were so ill and so sad ; 
now you are looking so well and so 
radiantly happy.” 

‘‘I’m quite well, mamma, and happy.” 

“ l^ut what was the cause of your 
looking so ill then?” 

Lucy did not answer, evading the 
question in the best way she could. 


That past time would be ever sacred 
between herself and her husband. 

“Well, I cannot understand it,” 
concluded Mrs. Cleeve. “ I only hope 
you will continue as you are now. Sir 
Karl looks well, also ; almost as he did 
when we first knew him at Winchester, 
before his brother brought that trouble 
on himself and all connected with him. 
To teiryou the truth, Luc}", I thought 
when I was last here that j’ou were 
both on the high road to consumption. 
Now you both look as though j^ou were 
on the road to — to ” 

“A fine old age,” put in Lucy, as 
her mother broke down for want of a 
simile. “Well, mamma, 1 ho]je we are 
— if God shall so will it.” 

“And — why you have made this in- 
to a dressing-room again !” cried Mrs. 
Cleeve, as Lucy took down her hair, 
and rang for Aglae. 

“ Yes ; I wanted it as one when I 
went back to my room.” 

“ What do you do with the other 
room — the one you slept in?” ques- 
tioned Mrs. Cleeve, throwing open the 
door as she spoke — for she had a great 
love of seeing into house arrangements. 
“You have had the bed taken away!” 

“ The room is not being used at 
present,” replied Lucy. “ Karl — 
Karl ” 

“Karl — what?” asked Mrs. Cleeve, 
w^ondering at the sudden timidity, and 
looking round. Lucy’s sweet face was 
blushing like a garden rose. 

“ Karl thinks I shall like to make it 
the d^y nursery.” 

“ Oh, my dear ! I am glad to hear 
thatP 

Lucy burst into tears of emotion. 
A very slight occurrence seemed still 
to bring back the past and its repen- 
tance. 

“ Mamma, you do not know, jmu can 
never know, how good God has been 
to me in all ways ; and how little I 
deserved it.” 

And so we leave all things at peiice. 
The dark storms had rolled away and 
given place to sunshine. 


THE END. 


V 


T. B. Pi 


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8 


T. B. PETEBSON & BKOTHERS’ LIST OF PITELICATIOHS, 


T. B, PETERSON BROTHERS’ COMPLETE ANO ILLUSTRATED 


EDITIONS OF 


CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

The only editions published in America containing the Original Illustrations. 




PEOPLE’S DUODECIMO EDITION. 

Reduced in Vrice from $2,50 to $1.50 a volume. 

This edition is printed on fine puper, from large, 
9'ear type, leaded, that all can read, containing Two 
Hundred Ilustra.tions on tinted paper, and each hook 
is complete in one large duodecitno volume. 

Our Miifiial Friend, ..Cloth, $1.50 

Pickwick. Papers, ...‘...Cloth, 1.50 

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Great JiixpectatioiiLS, Cloth, 1.50 

Oa vid Coppe rlleld,*. Cloth, 1.50 

Oliver Twisl., ; Cloth, 1.50 

Bleak House, Cloth, 1.50 

A Tale of Two Cities, Cloth, 1.50 

Dickens’ New Stories, Cloth, 1.50 

Lili;rie Dorrif, Cloth,]. .50 

Doinbey anti .Son, Cloth, 1.50 

Ciiristinas Stoi-ies, Cloth, 1.50 

Sketches by Bo*,” Cloth, J.50 

Barnaby Rud^e,... Cloth, 1., 50 

Martin Cb’uzxJewit, Cloth, 1.50 

O'd Curiosity Shop, Cloth, 1.50 

Mystery <»f Etiwin Drood ; and 

Master Humphrey’s Clock, Cloth, 1.50 

American N4»les; and Tlie Un- 
commercial Traveller, Cloth, 1.50 

The Holly-Tree Inn ; ixnd otlier 

Sttu'ies, Cloth, 1.50 

Hunted f>owi» ; and otber lie- 

pi inted Pieces, Cloth, 1.50 

Price of a .set, in Black cloth, in 20 volumes $.30.00 

“ “ Full sheep. Library style 40.00 

“ “ Half calf, sprinkled edges 50.00 

“ “ Half calf, marbled edges 55.00 

“ “ Half calf, antique 60.00 

“ “ Half calf, full gilt backs, etc 60.00 

GREEN CLOTH DUODECIMO EDITION. 

This is the “ Peoples Duodecimo Edijion,'’^ in a new 
style of Binding, in Green Morocco Cloth, Bevelled 
Boards, Ptdl Gilt descriptive hack, and Medallion Por- 
trait on sides in gilt, in Twenty handy volumes, 12//io., fine 
paper, large clear, type, and, Two Hundred Illustrations 
on tinted paper. Price $3S a set: being the hand- 
somest and best edition ever published for the price. 

CHEAP PAPER COVER EDITION. 


Pickwick Papers, 35 

Nicholas Nickleby, .35 

Dorn bey and .Sou .3.5 

David Copperfield, ,.25 

Marti n Ch uzzi e wit, 35 

Barnaby Rudge,... 25 

Old Curiosity Siiop, 25 

Oliver Twist, 2.5 

A meric 111 Notes, 2) 

Great Kxpectations, 25 

Hard Tiiue.s, 25 

Tale of T’wo Cities, 25 

Somebody's TjUggage,. ...2.5 
Me.ssage frum the Sea,. ...25 


Our Mutual Friend,. 35 

Bleak Hou.se, 35 

Little Dorrit 35 

Sketches by “ Boz,” 2.5 

Christmas Stories, 25 

The Haunted Ho use,.. ..-..25 
U n CO m 1 n e rc i a 1 T r a v e 1 1 e r . 25 
Wreck of Golden Mary,.. 25 
Tom Tiddler’s Ground, ..25 

A House to Let 26 

Perils English Prisoners, 25 
Life of Joseph Grimaldi, .50 

Pic-Nic Papers 50 

No Thoroughfare, 25 


.The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Dickeus' last work. ...25 
-Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings ; and Mrs. Lirriper’s Tjegacy,.25 
Mugby Junction; and Dr. Marigold's l’rescriptions,..25 

Hunted Down ; and other Reprinted Pieces, 25 

The Holly-Tree Inn ; and other Stories, 25 

NEW NATIONAL EDITION. 

This is the clieape.st bound edition of the works of 
Charles Dickens, published, all his writings being con- 
tained in large octavo volumes, with a portrait of 

Charles Dickens, and other illustrations. 

Price of a set, in Black cloth, in seven volumes.. ..$20.00 

“ “ Full sheep. Library style 25.00 

“ “ Half caif, antique .30 00 

“ “ Half calf, full gilt hacks, etc 30.00 


ILLUSTRATED DUODECIMO EDITION. 

Reduced in Price from $2.00 to $1.50 a volume. 

This edition is printed on the finest paper, frmn larrm 
typ*’, leaded, and contains all the original illustrations, 
600 in all, cm tinted papeo', from desir/ns hi/ Cruikshutd:. 

MacUse, McLenan, and other artists. 

This is the only e.ditum published that contains all the 
original illustrations, as selected by Mr. Charles Dickens, 
The. following are each complete in two volumes. 
Our Mutual Friend, Cloth, $.3.00 

Cloth, 3.00 

Tale ot; Two Cities, Cloth, 3.00 

Nicholas Nickleby, Cloth, ;3.(H) 

David Copperiield, Cloth, 8 00 

Oliver Twist, Cloth, .3.00 

Christmas Stories, ...Cloth, S.no 

Bleak House, Cloth, 3.00 

Sketches by “Boz,” Cloth, 3.00 


no 

00 

(*0 


Barnaby' Rnd^e, Cloth, 3. 

Martin Clinzzlewit, Cloth’ 3. 

Old Curiosity Shop, Cloth’ 3 

Dittle Dorrit, Cloth, 3 OQ 

Doinbey and Son, Cloth, 3.00 

7he following are each complete in one volume. 

Great Expectations, Cloth. 1.50 

Dickens’ New Stories, : Cloth, 1.50 

Mystery of Edwin Drood; and 

Master Humphrey’s Clock, Cloth, 1.50 

American Notes ; and Tlie Un- 
commercial Tra veller, Cloth, ] ;'0 

Holly-Tree Inn; other Stories, .. Cloth, 1 50 

Hunted Down; other l*ieces, .... Cloth. 1 ..50 
Price ofa set, in black cloth, iu.S lvols. gilt backs $50 OO 

“ “ Full sheep. Library style 68 0() 

“ “ Hnlf calf, antique 10o.(>0 

“ “ Half calf, full gilt back 100.00 

ILLUSTRATED OCTAVO EDITION. 

Reduced in Price from $2.50 to $1.75 a volume. 

This edition is printed from large type, double column 
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whole containing near Six Hundred Blnsirations, printed 
on tinted papt>r, from desig^is by Cruikshavk, Phiz, 
Browne, Mactise, McLenan. and other eminent artists, 

Oiir Mutual Friend, Cloth, $1.75 

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Oliver Txvist, Cloth, 1.7.1 

Bleak House, Cloth, 175 

Uittle Dorrit, Cloth, 1 75 

Domhey' and Son, Cloth, ] 75 

Sketches hy' “Boz,” Cloth, 1.75 

David Co|>perlield, Cloth, 1.75 

Barnahy' lind^e, Cloth, 1 75 

J>Iartin Clinzzlewit, Cloth, 1.75 

Old Curiosity Shop, Cloth, 1.75 

Christmas Stories, Cloth, 1.75 

J>ickens’ New Stories, Cloth, 1 75 

A Tale of Tw'O Cities, Cloth, 1.75 

American Notes and Pic-N Ic Papers. .1.75 

Price of a set, in Black cloth, in IS volumes $.31. .50 

“ “ Full sheep, liibrary style 40.00 

“ “ Half calf, sprinkled edges 4S.0C 

“ “ Half calf, marbled edges 54 00 

“ “ Half calf, antique 60.00 

“ “ Half calf, full gilt backs, etc.... 60.00 

THE LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS. 

The Life of Charles Dickens. By Dr. R, 

Shelton Mackenzie^ with a full history of his Life, 
hi.s Uncollected Pieces, in Pro.^e rnd Ver.'se ; Personal 
Recollections and Anecdotes: His Last Will in full; 
and Letters from Mr. Dicker)'? never before published. 
With Portrait and Autograph. Price Two Dollars. 


Either Edition of Charles Dickens’ Works will be sent to any one. Free of Transportatioii, on 
Eeoeipt of Eeta'il price, by T. B. PETEESON & BEOTHESS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 


9 


MILITARY XOVELS. 

Uy Lever, Uuiuas, and oiUer Autliors. 

W.tii IlluinluateJ Military Covers, iu Colors, making 
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or la ousuiid, at very low rates 

2 'li ir Xt fines are 08 Follows : 


Charles O’ ^>1 a Hey 7.5 

•lark, llliiioii, the (Juardsiaan 7o 

T.ie of Gwyiiiie 7.5 

Harry LoA’rec|uer 75 

'I'oiii liurUe of Ours 75 

Artiaiir O’Leary 75 

Cou Cregau's Adventures 75 

ICate O Oo'jojglmc 75 

11 >raoe Teiiipieton 75 

Haveuport Onun 75 

ViOeutine Vox 75 

•rivia Lieutenants 75 

^iorles of Waterloo 75 

Tile Soldiers AVife 75 

Tom Howling’s Adventures 75 

Oner ilia Cliief 75 

I’iie Tiirec Guardsmen 75 

•lack Adams’s Adventures, 75 

Twenty Years After 75 

B i-agelonne, the Son of Athos 75 

Korty-live Guardsmen 75 

I..ife of Robert Bruce 75 

'file Gipsy Cbief 75 

Massacre of Glencoe 75 

Life of Guy Faw'kes 75 

C b i Id of W'aterloo 75 

A<lrenfures of Ben Brace 75 

I » i f e of Jack Ariel 75 

I<’*,How'ing tlie Drum 50 

Wallace, tbe Hero of Scotland 1.00 

'/t' le Consci'ijit, a Tale of War 1.50 


iiiiiiker Soldier, by Col. J. Richter Jones. 1..50 

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10 


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